Letter LXXIX. To Eloisa. [20]

I enter with a secret horror on this vast desert, the world; whose

confused prospect appears to me only as a frightful scene of solitude

and silence. In vain my soul endeavours to shake off the universal

restraint it lies under. It was the saying of a celebrated ancient,

that he was never less alone than when he was by himself: for my part,

I am never alone but when I mix with the crowd, and am neither with

you nor with any body else. My heart would speak, but it feels there

is none to hear: it is ready to answer, but no one speaks any thing

that regards it. I understand not the language of the country, and no

body here understands mine. Yet I own that I am greatly caressed, and

that all the obliging offices of friendship and civility are readily

offered to me: this is the very thing of which I complain. The

officious zeal of thousands is ever on the wing to oblige me, but I

know not how to entertain immediately a friendship for men I have

never seen before. The honest feelings of humanity, the plain and

affecting openness of a frank heart, are expressed in a different

manner from those false appearances of politeness, and that external

flattery, which the customs of the world require. I am not a little

afraid that he, who treats me at first sight, as if I was a friend of

twenty years standing, if at the end of twenty years I should want his

assistance, will treat me as a stranger; and, when I see men, lost in

dissipation, pretend to take so tender a part in the concerns of every

one, I readily presume they are interested for no body but themselves.

There is, however, some truth in all this profession: the French are

naturally good-natured, open, hospitable, and generous. But they have

a thousand modes of expression, which are not to be too strictly

understood. A thousand apparent offers of kindness which they make

only to be refused; they are no more than the snares of politeness

laid for rustic simplicity. I never before heard such profusion of

promises: _you may depend on my serving you, command my credit, my

purse, my house, my equipage._----But, if all this were sincere, and

literally taken, there would not be a people upon earth less attached

to property. The community of possessions would be in a manner already

established; the rich always making offers, and the poor accepting

them, both would naturally soon come upon a level, and not the

citizens of Sparta itself could ever have been more upon an equality

than would be the people of Paris. On the contrary, there is not a

place, perhaps, in the world, where the fortunes of men are so

unequal, where are displayed at once the most sumptuous opulence and

the most deplorable poverty. This is surely sufficient to prove the

insignificance of that apparent commiseration, which every one here

affects to have for the wants and sufferings of others, and that

tenderness of heart, which in a moment contracts eternal friendship.

But if, instead of attending to professions so justly to be suspected,

and assurances so liable to deceive, I desire information, and would

see knowledge; here is its most agreeable source. One is immediately

charmed with the good sense which is to be met with in company of the

French, not only among the learned, but with men of all ranks, and

even among the women: the turn of conversation is always easy and

natural, it is neither dull nor frivolous, but learned without

pedantry, gay without noise, polite without affectation, gallant

without being fulsome, and jocose without immodesty. Their discourse

is neither made up of dissertations nor epigrams; they reason without

argumentation, and are witty without punning: they artfully unite

reason and vivacity, maxims and rhapsodies; and mix the most pointed

satire and refined flattery with strictness of morals. They talk about

every thing, because every one has something to say; they examine

nothing to the bottom, for fear of being tedious, but propose matters

in a cursory manner, and treat them with rapidity: every one gives his

opinion, and supports it in few words; no one attacks with virulence

that of another, nor obstinately defends his own; they discuss the

point only for the sake of improvement, and stop before it comes to a

dispute: every one improves, every one amuses himself, and they part

all satisfied with each other; even the philosopher himself carrying

away something worthy his private meditation.

But, after all, what kind of knowledge do you think is to be gained

from such agreeable conversation? to form a just judgment of life and

manners; to make a right use of society; to know, at least, the people

with whom we converse; there is nothing, Eloisa, of all this: all they

teach is to plead artfully the cause of falsehood, to confound, by

their philosophy, all the principles of virtue; to throw a false

colour, by the help of sophistry, on the passions and prejudices of

mankind; and to give a certain turn to error, agreeable to the

fashionable mode of thinking. It is not necessary to know the

characters of men, but their interests, to guess their sentiments on

any occasion. When a man talks on any subject, he rather expresses the

opinions of his garb or his fraternity, than his own, and will charge

them as often as he changes his situation and circumstances.

Dress him up, for instance, by turns, in the robe of a judge, a peer,

and a divine, and you shall hear him successively stand up, with the

same zeal, for the rights of the people, the despotism of the prince,

and the authority of the inquisition. There is one kind of reason for

the lawyer, another for the officer of the revenue, and a third for

the soldier. Each of them can demonstrate the other two to be knaves;

a conclusion not very difficult to be drawn by all three. [21] Thus

men do not speak their own sentiments but those they would instill

into others, and the zeal which they affect is only the mask of

interest. You may imagine, however, that such persons as are

unconnected and independent, have at least a personal character and an

opinion of their own. Not at all: they are only different machines,

which never think for themselves, but are set a going by springs.

You need only inform yourself of their company, their clubs, their

friends, the women they visit, the authors they are acquainted with;

and you may immediately tell what will be their opinion of the next

book that is published, the next play that is acted, the works of this

or that writer they know nothing of, or this or that system of which

they have not one idea. As ordinary clocks, also, are wound up to go

but four and twenty hours, so are these people under the necessity of

going every evening into company, to know what they are to think the

next day.

Hence it is, that there is but a small number of both sexes, who think

for all the rest, and for whom all the rest talk and act. As every one

considers his own particular interest, and none of them that of the

public, and as the interests of individuals are always opposed, there

is amongst them a perpetual clashing of parties and cabals, a

continual ebb and flow of prepossessions and contrary opinions; amidst

which the most violent tempers, agitated only by the rest, seldom

understand a word of the matter in dispute. Every club has its rules,

its opinions, its principles, which are no where else admitted. An

honest man at one house is a knave at the next door. The good, the

bad, the beautiful, the ugly, truth, and even virtue itself, have all

only a limited and local existence. Whoever chuses a general

acquaintance, therefore, and goes into different societies, should be

more pliable than Alcibiades; he should change his principles with his

company, new-model his sentiments in a manner at every step, and lay

down his maxims by the rod. He ought at every visit to leave his

conscience, if he has one, at the door, and take up with that

belonging to the house as a new servant, on his entrance, puts on its

livery, which he leaves behind him when turned out, and if he chuses

it, again takes up his own, which serves him till he gets a new suit

with a new place. But what is still more extraordinary, is, that every

one here is perpetually contradicting himself, without being concerned

at all about it. They have one set of principles for conversation, and

another for their actions; nor is any body scandalized at their

inconsistency, it being generally agreed they should be very

different. It is not required of an author, particularly of a moral

writer, that he should maintain in conversation what he advances in

his works; nor that he should put in practice what he inculcates. His

writings, conversation, and conduct, are three things essentially

different, which he is not at all obliged to reconcile to each other.

In a word, every thing is absurd, and yet nothing offends, because

absurdity is the fashion. Nay, there is attached to this incongruity

of principles and manners, a fashionable air of which they are proud,

and which is frequently affected. In fact, although every one

zealously preaches up the maxims of his profession, he piques himself

on the carriage and manners of another. The attorney, for instance,

assumes the martial air of a soldier, and a petty clerk of the

customs, the supercilious deportment of a lord; the bishop affects the

gallantry of a fine gentleman; the courtier the precision of a

philosopher; and the statesman the repartee and raillery of a wit.

Even the plain mechanic, who knows not how to put on the airs of any

other profession, dresses himself up in a suit of black on Sundays, in

order to pass for a practitioner in the law. The military gentlemen

alone, despising every other profession, preserve, without

affectation, the manners of their own, which, to say the truth, are

insufferable. Not that M. de Muralt was in the wrong, when he gave the

preference to the conversation of a soldier; but, what might be true

in his time, is no longer so now. The progress of literature has since

improved conversation in general; and, as the gentlemen of the army

despised such improvement in theirs, that which used to be the best,

is at length become the worst. [22]

Hence it is, that the persons we talk to are not those with whom we

converse; their sentiments do not come from the heart; their knowledge

is not the acquisition of their own genius; their conversation does

not discover their thoughts; and one perceives nothing of them but

their figure. Thus, a man in company here, is nearly in the same

situation as if he were spectator of a moving picture, where he

himself is the only figure capable of self-motion.

Such are the notions I have formed of great societies, by that which I

have seen at Paris. They may, nevertheless, be rather adapted to my

own particular situation than to the true state of things; and will

doubtless improve as I become more acquainted with the manners of the

world. Besides this, I have hitherto kept no other company than that

into which I have been introduced by the friends of Lord B----, and am

sensible it is necessary to descend to persons of different ranks, to

know the peculiar manners of a country; those of the opulent being

almost every where the same. I shall endeavour to inform myself better

hereafter; in the mean time, I leave you to judge whether I had not

sufficient reason to call this crowded scene a desert, and to be

terrified by a solitude, where I find only an empty appearance of

sentiments and of sincerity, that falsifies itself in the instant of

expression; and where I perceive only the mere apparitions of men,

phantoms that strike the eye for a moment, but are insensible to the

touch? Hitherto I have seen a great number of masks; when shall I

behold the faces of mankind?

Letter LXXX. From Eloisa.

Yes, my friend, we shall continue to be united, notwithstanding our

separation; we shall be happy in spite of fortune. It is the union of

minds which constitutes their true felicity; the mutual attraction of

hearts does not follow the _ratio_ of their distance, and ours would

be in contact, were they distant as the poles asunder. I am sensible

with you that true lovers have a thousand expedients to sooth the

pains of absence, and to fly to each other’s arms in a moment. Hence

have they more frequent interviews even in absence, than when they see

each other every day; for, no sooner is either alone, than they are

both together. If you, my friend, can taste that pleasure every

evening, I feast on it a hundred times a day. I am more alone, and am

surrounded by objects I cannot look on without calling you to mind,

without finding you ever near me.

_Qui canto dolcemente e qui s’assise

Qiu si revolve, e qui ritenne il passo

Qui co ’begli occhi me trafise il core

Qui disse una parola, e qui sorrise._

But is it so with you? can you thus alleviate the pains of absence?

can you experience the sweets of a peaceful and tender passion, that

speaks to the heart without inflaming the senses? Are your griefs at

present more prudent than were formerly your desires? the violence of

your first letter still makes me tremble. I dread those deceitful

transports, by so much the more dangerous as the imagination which

excites them, is the less subject to controul; and, I fear, lest even

your excess of love should prove injurious to the object of it. Alas!

you know not, your sensations are too indelicate to perceive how

offensive to love is an irrational homage. You do not consider that

your life is mine, nor that self-preservation leads us frequently to

destruction. Sensual man! will you never learn to love? call to mind

those peaceful, those tender sensations you once felt, and so

affectingly described. If such be the highest pleasures which even

happy lovers can taste, they are the only ones wherein those who pine

in absence are permitted to indulge themselves; and those who once

have felt them, though but for a moment, should never regret the loss

of any other. I remember the reflections we made in reading your

Plutarch, on the sensuality and depravity of taste, which debase our

nature. Were such wretched pleasures attended only with the

circumstance of their not being mutual, it were enough, we said, to

render them insipid and contemptible. Let us apply the same conclusion

to the sallies of an extravagant imagination, to which it is no less

applicable. What can the wretch enjoy whose pleasures are confined to

himself alone? his pleasures are lifeless, but thine, O love! are

animated and generous delights. It is the union of souls: we receive

more pleasure from that which we excite, than from our own enjoyment.

But, pray, tell me, my friend, in what language, or rather, in what

jargon, is the description you give me in your last letter? did you

not make use of it as an occasional display of your wit? if you intend

to repeat it in your letters to me, it will be necessary to send me a

dictionary. What is it you mean by the opinions of a garb? by a

conscience that is to be put off and on, like a livery? by laying down

maxims by the rod? how would you have a poor, simple Swiss comprehend

those sublime tropes and figures? have you not already borrowed some

of the tinsel understanding of the people you describe? take care, my

good friend, how you proceed. Do you not think the metaphors of the

chevalier Marini, which you have so often laughed at, bear some

resemblance to your own? if a garment may be said to think, in a

letter, why not that fire may sweat in a sonnet? [23]

To observe in the space of three weeks all the different company that

is kept in a great city; to pass judgment on their conversation; to

distinguish precisely the false from the true, the real from the

affected; the difference between their thoughts and words: this is the

very thing for which the French are frequently censured by people of

other countries; but this nation especially deserves to be studied

more at leisure. I as little approve also of persons speaking ill of a

country where they reside and are well received: they had better, in

my judgment, submit to be deceived by appearances, than to moralize at

the expense of their hosts. In short, I always suspect the candour of

those observers, who set up for wits. I am always apprehensive lest

they should insensibly sacrifice the real state of things to the arts

of description, and affect a brilliancy of stile at the expense of

truth.

You know, my friend, the saying of Muralt, that wit is the epidemical

madness of the French: I am mistaken if I do not discover some marks

of your being yourself infected with this phrenzy. There is this

difference, however, that while it is agreeable enough in the French,

the Swiss are of all people in the world those it becomes the least.

There is something very quaint and far-fetched in many passages of

your letter. I do not speak of the lively turn or animated

expressions, which are dictated by any peculiar strength of

sentiments, but of that affected prettiness of stile, which being

unnatural in itself, can be natural to no people whatever, but betrays

the absurd pretensions of the person who uses it. Pretensions, with

those we love, good God! ought not all our pretensions to be confined

to the object beloved? It may be permitted to enliven an indifferent

conversation with such rhetorical flourishes, and they may pass off as

fine strokes of wit; but this is not the language adapted to the

intercourse of lovers; the florid jargon of gallantry comes less from

the heart than the most rude and simple of all dialects. I appeal to

yourself: did wit ever find an opportunity to intrude into our private

parties? if those fond, those endearing conversations had a charm to

dispel and keep wit at a distance, how ill-suited are its

embellishments to the letters of absence, always clouded in some

measure with sorrow; and in which the heart expresses itself with

peculiar tenderness? but, though every passion truly great should be

serious, excess of joy sooner calling forth our tears than our smiles,

I would not have love be always sad; its chearfulness should,

nevertheless, be simple and unaffected, without art, without

embellishment, and undissembled as the passion itself. In a word, I

would have love appear in its native graces, and not in the false

ornaments of wit.

My _constant companion_, in whose apartment I write this letter,

pretends, that in the beginning of it I had just that pleasantry of

disposition which love inspires; but I know not what is become of it.

In proportion as I proceed, a languor invades my heart, and hardly

leaves me spirits to write the reproaches she would have me make you.

For you are to know the above hypercriticisms are rather hers than my

own. It was she that dictated in particular the first article,

laughing like an idiot, and insisting on my not altering a single

syllable. She says, it is to teach you to respect Marini, whom she

patronizes and you have the presumption to ridicule.

But can you guess the cause of our good humour? it is her approaching

marriage. The contract was signed last night, and the day is fixed for

Monday sevennight. If ever love was a chearful passion, it is surely

so with her: surely no girl was ever so droll upon the like occasion.

The good Mr. Orbe, whose head is also a little turned, was highly

delighted with the comical manner in which he was received. Less

difficult to be pleased than you were, he takes great pleasure in

adding to the pleasantry of courtship, and looks upon the art of

diverting his mistress as a master-piece in making love. For her part,

we may talk to her as we please of decorum, tell her as much as we

will of the grave and serious turn she ought to assume on the point of

matrimony, and of doing honour to the virgin state she is going to

quit; she laughs at all we can say, as ridiculous grimace, and tells

Mr. Orbe to his face, that on the wedding day she shall be in the best

humour in the world; and that one cannot go too chearfully to be

married. But the little dissembler does not tell all; I surprized her

this morning wiping her eyes, which were red with crying, and I would

lay a wager, the tears of the night equal the smiles of the day. She

is going to bind herself in new chains, that will relax the gentle

ties of friendship: she is entering on a manner of life very different

to that which she most affected. Hitherto always pleased and tranquil,

she is going to run those hazards which are inseparable from the best

marriage; and, whatever face she may assume, I see that, as a clear

and smooth water begins to be troubled at the approach of a storm, so

her chaste and timid heart feels an alarm at her approaching change of

condition.

May they be happy, my dear friend! they love, and will be united in

marriage: they will reap the transports of mutual enjoyment without

obstacles, without fear, without remorse! Adieu, my heart is full----I

can write no more.

P.S. We have seen Lord B----, but he was in such haste to proceed on

his journey, that he staid with us but a moment. Impressed with a due

sense of the obligations we owe him, I would have made him my

acknowledgments and yours; but, I know not how, I was ashamed. It is

surely a kind of insult offered to his unparallel’d generosity to

thank such a man for any thing!

Letter LXXXI. To Eloisa.

What children does the impetuosity of our passions make of us! how

readily does an extravagant affection nourish itself on chimeras; and

how easily are our too violent desires prevented by the most frivolous

objects! I received your letter with as much rapture as your presence

could have inspir’d: in the excess of my transport, a piece of folded

paper supplying in my mind the place of Eloisa. One of the greatest

evils of absence, and the only one which reason cannot alleviate, is

the inquietude we are under concerning the actual state of the person

we love. Her health, her life, her repose, her affections, nothing

escapes the apprehensions of him who has every thing to lose. Nor are

we more certain of the present condition than of the future; and every

possible accident is realiz’d in the mind of the timid lover. I

breathe, and am alive again. You are in health, and still love me; or

rather ten days ago you loved me, and was well; but who can assure me

it is so at this instant? How cruel! how tormenting is absence! how

fatally capricious is that situation in which we can enjoy only the

past moment and the present not yet arrived.

Had you said nothing about your _constant companion_, I should have

detected her little malice in the censures passed on my observations,

and her old grudge in the apology for Marini; but, if it be permitted

me in turn to apologize for myself, I will not make her wait for a

reply.

In the first place then, my dear cousin, for it is to her I should

address my answer, as to the stile of my remarks, I have adopted that

of the subject: I endeavoured to give you at once both an idea and an

example of the mode of conversation in fashion; and thus, following an

ancient precept, I wrote to you in the same manner they talk in some

companies to each other. Besides, it is not the use of rhetorical

figures, but the choice of them, which I blame in Marini. If a man has

the least warmth of imagination, he must necessarily use metaphors and

figurative expressions to make himself understood. Even your own

letters are full of them, without your knowing it; and I will maintain

it, that none but a geometrician or a blockhead can talk without

metaphor. In effect, the same sentiment may admit of an hundred

different degrees of energy; and how are we to determine the precise

degree in which to enforce it, but by the turn of expression? I must

confess I could not help smiling myself at the absurdity of some

phrases I used. I thank you for the trouble you took to pick them out.

But, let them stand where they are, you will find them clear and

peculiarly emphatical. Let us suppose that your two sprightly

sparkling eyes, whose language is now expressive, were separated one

from the other, and from the set of features to which they give such

lustre; what think you, cousin, they would say, even with all their

vivacity and fire? Believe me, they would lose all power of

expression; they would be mute even to Mr. Orbe.

Is not the first thing that presents itself to observation in a

strange country, the general cast and turn of conversation? And is not

this the first observation I have made in Paris? I have written to you

only what is said, and not what is done in this city. If I remarked a

contrast between the discourse, the sentiments, and the actions of the

people, it is because the contrast is too striking to escape the most

superficial observer. When I see the same persons change their maxims

according to the company they frequent, Molinists in one and

Jansenists in another, court sycophants with the minister, and

factious grumblers with an anticourtier: when I see a man in lace and

embroidery rail at luxury, an officer of the revenue against imposts,

or a prelate against gluttony; when I hear a court-lady talk of

modesty, a noble lord of honesty, an author of candour, or an abbé of

religion, and see nobody surprized at these absurdities, is it not

natural enough to conclude that people here are as little anxious to

hear truth as to speak it? And that, so far from endeavouring to

persuade others into their own opinion, they care not whether they are

believed or not?

But, let this suffice, in the way of pleasantry, for an answer to our

cousin. I will lay aside an affectation to which we are all three

strangers, and I hope you will find in me for the future as little of

the satirist as the wit. And now, Eloisa, let me reply to you; for I

am at no loss to distinguish between critical raillery and serious

reproaches.

I cannot conceive how both you and your cousin could so egregiously

mistake the object of my description. It was not the French in

particular, on whom I intended to animadvert. For, if the characters

of nations can be determined only by their difference, how can I, who

have as yet no acquaintance with any other, pretend to draw the

character of this? I should not besides have been so indiscreet as to

fix on the metropolis for the place of observation. I am not ignorant

that capital cities differ less from each other, than the national

characters of the people, which are there in a great measure lost and

confounded, as well from the influence of courts, all which bear a

great resemblance to each other, as from the common consequence of

living in a close and numerous society; which is also every where

nearly the same, and prevails over the original and peculiar character

of the country.

Were I to study the national characteristics of a people, I would

repair to some of the more distant provinces, where the inhabitants

still pursue their natural inclinations. I would proceed slowly and

carefully through several of those provinces, and those at greatest

distance from each other: from the difference I might observe between

them, I would then trace the peculiar genius of each province; from

what was theirs in common and not customary to other countries, I

would trace the genius of the nation in general; and what appeared

common to all nations, I should regard as characteristics of mankind

in general. But I have neither formed so extensive a project; nor, if

I had, am I possessed of the necessary experience to put it in

execution. My design is to improve myself in the knowledge of mankind

universally, and my method is to consider man in his several

relations. I have hitherto been acquainted only with small societies

scattered up and down, in a manner alone, and without connections. At

present I am in the midst of others, which are surrounded by

multitudes on the same spot, from which I shall begin to judge of the

genuine effects of society; for, if men are constantly made better by

their association, the more numerous and closely connected they are,

still better they ought to be; and their manners should be more simple

and less corrupted at Paris than in the Valais; but if experience

prove the contrary, we must draw the opposite conclusion.

This method, I confess may in time lead to the knowledge of the

national characters of people; but by a route so tedious and indirect,

that I may perhaps never be qualified to determine that of any one

nation upon earth. I must begin to make my observations on the first

country in which I reside, proceeding in the others I pass through to

mark the difference between them and the first: comparing France to

every other, as we describe an olive-tree by a willow, or a palm-tree

by a fir, and must defer the forming my judgment of the first people

observed, till I have finished my observations on all the rest.

Please to distinguish then, my charming monitor, between philosophical

observation and national satire. It is not the Parisians that I study,

but the inhabitants of a great city; and I know not whether the

remarks I have made be not as applicable to those of Rome and London,

as of Paris. Moral principles do not depend on the customs of a

people; so in spite of their reigning prejudices I can perceive what

is wrong in itself but I know not whether I can justly attribute it to

the Frenchman, or the _man_; whether it be the effect of habit, or of

nature. Vice is in every place offensive to an impartial eye, and it

is no more blameable to reprove it in whatever country it is found,

than to correct the failings of humanity, because we live among men.

Am not I at present an inhabitant of Paris? perhaps, I may have

already unconsciously contributed my share, to the disorders I have

remarked: perhaps too long a stay may corrupt even my inclinations,

and at the end of a year I may be no more than a Parisian myself; if,

in order to be deserving of Eloisa, I do not cherish the spirit of

liberty and the manners of a free citizen. Let me proceed therefore,

without restraint, in describing objects I should blush to resemble,

and in animating my zeal for virtue by displaying the disgustful

pictures of falsehood and vice.

Were my employment and fortune in my own power, I might without doubt

make choice of other subjects for my letters. You were not displeased

with those I wrote you from Meillerie, and the Valais: but, my dear

friend, it is necessary for me, in order to support the noise and

hurry of the world, in which I am obliged to live, to console myself

in writing to you; and the thoughts of drawing up my narratives for

your perusal, should excite me to look out for proper subjects.

Discouragement would otherwise overtake me at every step, and I must

entirely relinquish my observations on mankind, if you refuse to hear

me. Consider that, to live in a manner so little conformable to my

taste, I make an effort not unworthy of its cause: and to enable you

to judge of what I must undergo to obtain you, permit me to speak

sometimes of the maxims I am forced to learn, and the obstacles I am

obliged to encounter.

In spite of my slow pace, and unavoidable avocations, my collection

was finish’d when your letter happily arrived to prolong my task of

copying: but, I admire, in seeing it so short, how you contrive to say

so much in so few words. I will maintain it, there can be no reading

so delightful as that of your letters, even to those to whom you are a

stranger, if their hearts do but sympathise with ours. But how can you

be a stranger to any one who reads your letters? is it possible that a

manner so engaging, that sentiments so tender, can belong to any other

than Eloisa? your enchanting looks accompany every sentence; your

charming voice pronounces every word. It is impossible for any other

to love, to think, to speak, to act, to write like Eloisa. Be not

surprized then if your letters, which so strikingly convey your form

and feature, should sometimes have the same effect as your presence on

a lover, who so devoutly idolizes your person. I lose my senses in

their perusal; my head grows giddy, a devouring flame consumes me; my

blood boils, and I become frantic with passion. I fancy I see, I feel,

I press you to my heart, adorable object! bewitching beauty! source of

rapture and delight! image of those angelic forms, which are the

fabled companions of the bless’d! come to my arms----she is here----

I clasp her in my embrace----ah! no, she is vanish’d; and I grasp but

a shadow.----Indeed, my dear friend, you are too charming; you have

been too indulgent to the weakness of a heart, that can never forget

your charms, nor your tenderness. Your beauty even triumphs in its

absence, it pursues me wherever I go, it makes me dread to be alone,

and it is my greatest misery that I dare not give myself to the

contemplation of so ravishing an object.

Our friends then, I find, will be united in spite of all obstacles; or

rather they are so while I am now writing. Amiable and deserving pair!

may heaven bestow on them all the blessings their prudent and peaceful

affections, innocence of manners, and goodness of heart, deserve! may

it bless them with that happiness it is so sparing of to those who

were formed by nature to taste its delights! happy indeed will they

be, if heaven should grant to them what it has taken from us! and

yet, Eloisa, we may draw some consolation even from our misfortunes.

Do you not perceive that our severest troubles are not without their

peculiar satisfactions; and that altho’ our friends may taste

pleasures of which we are deprived, we enjoy others of which they are

ignorant? yes, my gentle friend, in spite of absence, losses, fears;

in spite even of despair itself, the powerful exertion of two hearts,

longing for each other, is always attended with a secret pleasure

unknown to those at ease. This is one of the miracles of love, that

teacheth us how to extract pleasure from pain; and would make us look

upon a state of indifference as the greatest of all misfortunes. Tho’

we lament our own situation, then, let us not envy that of others. On

the whole, perhaps, there is none preferable to our own: as the deity

derives his happiness from himself, the hearts that glow with a

celestial passion, find in themselves the source of refined enjoyment,

independent of fortune.

Letter LXXXII. To Eloisa.

At length, Eloisa, behold me swim with the stream. My collection being

finish’d, I begin to frequent the public diversions, and to sup in

company; I spend the whole day abroad, and am attentive to every

striking object: but, perceiving nothing that resembles you, I

recollect myself in the midst of noise and confusion, and converse in

secret with my love. It is not however, that this busy and tumultuous

life has not in it something agreeable, or that such a vast variety of

objects do not present a considerable fund of gratification to the

curiosity of a stranger: but, to taste the entertainment they afford,

the heart should be vacant, and the understanding idle. Both love and

reason seem to unite in raising my disgust against such amusement.

Every thing here being confined to appearances, which are every

instant changing, I have neither the time to be moved with, nor to

examine, any thing.

Hence I begin to see the difficulties of studying the world, and I

know not what situation is most likely to make me a proficient in this

science. The speculatist lives at too great a distance, and the man of

business too near the object, to view it critically: the one sees too

much to be able to reflect on any part, and the other too little to

judge of the whole piece. Every object that strikes the philosopher he

examines apart, and not being able to discern its connections and

relations with others, that lie beyond the field of his observation,

he never sees them placed in their proper point of view, and knows

neither their real causes nor effects. The man of business sees all,

and has leisure to think on nothing. The instability of objects

permits him barely to perceive their existence, and not to examine

their qualities: they pass in succession before him with such

rapidity, that they efface the impression of each other, and load his

memory only with a chaos of confused ideas. It is also as impossible

to make observations, and meditate on them alternately: as the scene

requires a constant and unremitted attention, which reflection would

interrupt. A man who should divide his time by intervals between

solitude and society, always perplexed in retirement and to seek in

the world, would be able to do nothing in either. There is but one

way: and that is to divide the whole period of life into two parts;

applying the one to observation, and the other to reflection. But this

is next to impossible; for reason is not a piece of furniture that can

be thrown aside, and put to use again at pleasure: the man who should

live ten years without reflection, will never again be capable of

reflection as long as he lives.

I find it is a folly to think to study mankind in the quality of a

simple spectator. He, who pretends only to make observations, will be

able to observe nothing: for, being useless to the men of business,

and troublesome to those of pleasure, he will find no where

admittance. We can have the opportunity of seeing others act, in

proportion only as we act with them; in the school of the world, as

well as in that of love, we must begin by praising whatever we desire

to learn.

What method then can I take? I that am a stranger, and can follow no

employment in this country, and whom the difference of religion alone

excludes from aspiring to office? I am reduced to be humble, in order

to instruct myself; and, as I can never be useful, must endeavour to

make myself agreeable. To this end, I aim as much as possible to be

polite without flattery, complaisant without meanness, and to put so

good a face on what is tolerable in society that I may be admitted

into it, without being under the necessity of adopting its vices.

Every man that would see the world, and has nothing to do in it, ought

at least to adopt its manners to a certain degree. For what pretension

can he have to be admitted into the society of people to whom he can

be of no service, and to whom he has not the address to make himself

agreeable? But, if he has found out this art, it is all that is

required of him, particularly if he be a stranger. Such a one has no

occasion to take part in their cabals, their intrigues, or their

quarrels: if he behaves obligingly to every one; if he neither

excludes, nor prefers women of a certain character; if he keeps the

secrets of the company into which he is admitted; if he turns not into

ridicule at one house, what he sees in another; if he avoids making

confidents; entering into broils; and, in particular, if he maintains

a certain personal dignity; he may see the world, without molestation,

preserve the purity of his manners, his probity, and even his

frankness itself, if it arises from a spirit of liberty, and not from

that of party. This is what I have endeavoured to do, agreeable to the

advice of some people of sense, whom I have chosen for my advisers,

among the acquaintance Lord B----’s interest has procured me. In

consequence of this, I begin now to be admitted into companies, less

numerous and more select. Hitherto I have been chiefly invited to

regular dinners, where the only woman at table is the mistress of the

family; where open house is kept for all the idle people about Paris,

with whom they have the slightest acquaintance; and where every one

pays for his dinner in wit, or flattery, as he can best afford: the

conversation being in general noisy and confused, and very much

resembling that of a public ordinary.

I am at present initiated into the more secret mysteries of visiting:

being intreated to private suppers, where the door is shut against all

strolling and chance guests, and every one is upon an agreeable

footing, if not with each other, at least with the provider of the

entertainment. Here it is that the women are less reserved, and their

real characters more easily discovered. The conversation is in these

parties carried on with more decorum, and is more refined and

satirical: instead of talking of the public news, plays, promotions,

births, deaths, and marriages, which were the topics of the morning,

they here take a review of the several anecdotes of Paris, divulge the

secret articles of the scandalous chronicle, turn the good and bad

alike into ridicule, and, in artfully describing the characters of

others, undesignedly display their own. It is in these companies that

the little circumspection which remains has invented a peculiar kind

of language, under which they affect to render their satire more

obscure, while it only makes it more severe. It is here, in a word,

that they carefully sharpen the poignard, under pretence of making it

less hurtful; but, in fact, only to make it wound the deeper. To

judge, however, of this conversation according to our notions of

things, we should be in the wrong to call it satirical; for it

consists more of raillery than censure, and turns less upon the

vicious than the ridiculous. Satire in general is not common in large

cities, where that which is downright wicked is too simple to be worth

talking about. What can they condemn where virtue is in no esteem? and

what should they revile where nothing is held to be villainous? At

Paris, more particularly, where every thing is seen in an agreeable

light, the representation of things that ought to raise our

indignation is well received, if it be but wrapt up in a song or an

epigram. The fine ladies of this country do not like to be displeased;

and are therefore displeased at nothing: they love to laugh, but woe

be to him who happens to be the butt of their ridicule; the fears this

caustic leaves are never to be effaced; they not only defame good

manners and virtue, but exaggerate even vice itself. We now return to

our company.

What strikes me most in these select meetings, is to see that half a

dozen people, expressly chosen to entertain one another agreeably, and

between whom there generally subsist very intimate connections, cannot

converse an hour together without introducing the affairs of half the

people in Paris; just as if their hearts had nothing to say to each

other, or that there was no person in company of merit enough to

engage their attention. You know, Eloisa, how far otherwise it was

with us, when we supped together at your cousin’s, or your own

apartment; how we could find means, in spite of constraint and

secrecy, to turn the discourse on subjects that related to ourselves;

how at every moving reflection, at every subtle allusion, a look more

swift than lightening, a sigh rather imagined than perceived, conveyed

the pleasing sensation from one heart to the other.

If the discourse here turn by accident on any of the company, it is

commonly carried on in a jargon known only to the persons concerned,

and which one had need of a vocabulary to understand. Thus by talking

as it were in cypher, they are enabled to banter each other with

insipid raillery, in which the greatest blockhead does not always

shine the least. In the mean time, perhaps, a third part of the

company, incapable of taking the jest, are either reduced to a

disagreeable silence, or to laugh at what they do not understand. Of

this kind, Eloisa, is all the tenderness and affection I have observed

in the intimacies of this country: those of a more private nature,

with only a second person, I have not, nor ever shall have

experienced.

In the midst of all this, however, if a man of any weight and

consequence should enter on a grave discourse, or begin to discuss a

serious question, a general attention would be immediately fixed on

this new object: men and women, old and young, every one would be

ready to enter into its examination; and it is astonishing how much

good sense and precision would, as it were, through emulation, sally

out of their extravagant heads. [24] A point of morality could not be

better determined in a society of philosophers, than in that of a fine

lady at Paris: their conclusions would even be less precise and

severe: for the philosopher, who thinks himself obliged to act as he

speaks, will be less rigid in his principles; but, where morality is

nothing more than a topic of discourse, the severity of it is of no

consequence: and no one is displeased at an opportunity of checking

philosophical pride, by placing virtue out of its reach.

Besides this, influenced by a knowledge of the world and of their own

hearts, all agree in thinking human nature as depraved as possible:

hence their philosophy is always of the gloomy cast; they are ever

indulging their own vanity by depreciating the virtues of humanity;

always accounting for good actions from vicious motives, and

attributing to mankind in general the depravity of their own minds.

And yet, notwithstanding their adopting this abject doctrine, one of

the favourite topics of these societies is _sentiment_; a word by

which we are not to understand the sensation of a heart susceptible of

love or friendship: this would be thought vulgar and disgusting. No,

sentiment consists in great and general maxims, heightened by the

most sublime subtilties of metaphysics. I can safely say that in my

life, I have never heard so much talk of sentiment, nor ever

comprehended so little what was meant by it; so inconceivable are

these French refinements! our simple hearts, Eloisa, never were

governed by any of these fine maxims; and I am afraid it is with

sentiment in the polite world, as it is with Homer among the pedants,

who discover in him a thousand imaginary beauties, for want of taste

to point out his real ones. So much sentiment is here laid out in wit,

and evaporated in conversation, that none is left to influence their

actions. Happily politeness supplies its place, and people act from

custom nearly as they would from sensibility: at least so long as it

costs them only a few compliments, and such trifling restraints, as

they willingly lay themselves under in order to be respected; but, if

any considerable sacrifice of their ease or interest is required,

adieu to sentiment: politeness does not proceed so far; so far as it

goes, however, you can hardly believe how nicely every article of

behaviour is weighed, measured, and estimated. What is not regulated

by sentiment, is subjected to custom, by which indeed every thing here

is governed. These people are all professed copyists; and, tho’ they

abound in originals, nobody knows any thing of them, or presumes to be

so himself. _To do like other people_, is a maxim of the greatest

weight in this country: _and this is the mode----that is not the

mode_, are decisions from which there is no appeal.

This apparent regularity gives to the common, and even the most

serious transactions of life, the most comical air in the world. They

have settled even the very moment when it is proper to send cards to

their acquaintance; when to visit with a card, that is, to visit

without visiting at all; when to do it in person; when it is proper to

be at home; when to be denied; what advances it is proper to make, or

reject on every occasion; what degree of sorrow should be affected at

the death of such, or such a one; [25] how long to mourn in the

country; when they may come to console themselves in town; the very

day, and even the minute, when the afflicted is permitted to give a

ball, or go to the play. Every body in the same circumstances does the

same thing: they keep time, and their motions are made all together,

like the evolutions of a regiment in battalia; so that you would think

them so many puppets, nailed to the same board, or danced by the same

wire.

Now, as it is morally impossible that all these people, tho’ they act

in the same manner, should be at once equally affected, it is plain,

their peculiar characters are not to be known by their actions; it is

plain their discourse is only a formal jargon, which assists us less

to form a judgment of the French manners in general, than the peculiar

mode of conversing in Paris. In like manner, we learn only here their

terms of conversation, but nothing by which we can judge of their

estimation in the conduct of life. I say the same of most of their

writings; and even of their theatrical representations. The stage,

since the time of Moliere, being a place where they rather repeat

agreeable dialogues, than give a representation of life and manners.

There are here three theatres; on two of which they only introduce

imaginary characters; such as Harlequin, Pantaloon, and Scaramouch, on

the one; and, on the other, gods, devils, and conjurers. On the third,

they represent those immortal dramas, which give us so much pleasure

in reading, and other new pieces, which are from time to time written

for the stage; many of which are tragical, but not affecting. And,

tho’ the sentiments contained in them are sometimes natural, and well

enough adapted to the human heart, they give us not the least light

into the peculiar manners of the people to whom they afford

entertainment.

The institution of tragedy was originally founded on religion, whose

sanction was sufficient to establish its authority. Besides this, the

tragic scene always presented to the Greeks an instructive and

agreeable representation, either in the misfortunes of the Persians

their enemies, or in the vices and follies of the kings from which

they themselves were delivered. Should they represent in like manner

at Berne, at Zurich, or at the Hague, the ancient tyranny of the house

of Austria, the love of liberty and their country would make such a

representation peculiarly interesting to the spectators: but I would

be glad to know of what use are the tragedies of Corneille at Paris;

and what interest its citizens can take in the fate of a Pompey or

Sertorius. The Greek tragedies turned upon real events, or such as

were supposed to be real, being founded on historical tradition. But

what business has a refined heroic passion in the breasts of the

great? the conflicts of love and virtue cause them, no doubt, many an

unhappy day and sleepless night! the heart is doubtless vastly

concerned in the marriage of kings! judge then of the probability and

use of so many performances all turning on such imaginary subjects.

As to comedy, it should certainly be a lively representation of the

manners of the people for whom it is written; that it may serve them

as a mirror to shew them their vices and follies. Terence and Plautus

mistook their subjects; but their predecessors, Aristophanes and

Menander, displayed Athenian manners before an Athenian audience; and

since these, Moliere, and Moliere only, has represented still more

ingenuously in France the manners of the French in the last age.

The objects of the picture are since changed; but they have never

since had so faithful, so masterly a painter. At present, they only

copy on the theatre the manner of conversing in about an hundred

families in Paris; and this is their representation of French manners:

so that there are in this great city five or six hundred thousand

persons, whose various characters are never introduced on the stage.

Moliere described the shopkeeper and artisan, as well as the Marquis;

Socrates introduces the discourses of coachmen, carpenters,

shoemakers, and masons. But our present writers, quite of another

stamp, think it beneath them to know what passes in a trader’s

counting house or the shop of a mechanic: their dramas must consist of

persons of the first quality; for by the grandeur of their characters,

they aim at a degree of eminence they never could attain by the

assistance of genius. Nay, the audience itself is become so very

delicate, that the chief of the spectators are as jealous of place and

precedence in going to a play as in making a visit, never

condescending to be present at the representation of characters of

inferior condition.

Indeed, the people of fashion here are considered by themselves as the

only inhabitants of the earth; all the rest of mankind are nobody. All

the world keep a coach, a Swiss and a _Maitre d’Hotel_: all the world,

therefore, consist of a very small number of people. Those who walk

afoot are nobody; they are your common people, human creatures, the

vulgar, folks in short of another world: so that a coach is not so

necessary to carry one about, as to give one a title to existence. And

hence there is a handful of impertinent people, who look upon

themselves as the only beings of any consequence in the universe:

though, were it not for the mischief they occasion, they themselves

would not deserve to be numbered with the rest of mankind. It is

nevertheless solely for these people that theatrical entertainments

are made. They are represented by fictitious characters in the middle

of the theatre, and shew themselves in real ones on each side; they

are at once persons of the drama on the stage, and comedians in the

boxes. It is thus that the sphere of the world and genius is

contracted, while the present dramatic writers absurdly affect to

introduce only characters of imaginary importance. No man is worthy of

being brought upon the stage that does not wear a laced coat. A

stranger would hence be apt to think France peopled only by counts and

marquises, altho’, in fact, the more miserable and beggarly its

inhabitants grow, the more splendid and brilliant is their

representation on the theatre; and hence it is, that the ridiculous

behaviour of persons of rank, in being exposed on the stage, rather

gains ground than diminishes, and that the common people, who are ever

aping the rich, go less to the theatre to laugh at their follies than

to study them, and to become by imitation greater fools than the

originals.

The French are indebted even to Moliere in a great measure for this

evil; he corrected the courtiers by spoiling the citizens, and his

ridiculous marquises were the first model of those still more

contemptible petit-maitres, which succeeded them in the city.

There is in general much discourse and but very little action on the

French stage: the reason of which is, perhaps, that the French talk

much more than they do, or at least, that they pay a much greater

regard to what is said than to what is done. I remember the answer of

a spectator, who, in coming out from the representation of one of the

pieces of Dionysius the tyrant, was asked, what he had seen? _I have

seen nothing,_ said he, _but I have heard a deal of talk._ The same

might be said of the French plays. Racine and Corneille, with all

their genius, are no more than talkers, and their successor is the

first of all the French poets, who, in imitation of the English, has

sometimes ventured to bring scenes of action on the stage. In common,

their plays consist only of witty, or florid dialogues well disposed;

where it is obvious the chief design of the speakers is to display

their talents of wit and elocution. In the mean time, almost every

sentiment is delivered in the stile of a general maxim. However

transported they may be with passion, they always preserve their

respect to the public, of whom they think more constantly than of

themselves: the pieces of Racine and Moliere excepted, [26] egotism is

excluded as scrupulously from the French drama as from the writings of

messieurs de Port-Royal; and the passions of the human heart never

speak, but with all the modesty of Christian humility, in the third

person. There is besides a certain affected dignity in theatrical

discourse and action, which never permits the passions to be expressed

in their natural language, or suffers the writer to divest himself of

the poet and attend to the scene of action, but binds him constantly

down to the theatre and the audience. Hence the most critical

situations, the most interesting circumstances of the piece, never

make him forget the nicest arrangement, of phrase or elegancies of

attitude. Should even despair plunge a dagger in the heart of his

hero, not contented that, like Polixenes, he should observe a decency

in falling, he would not let him fall at all: for the sake of decency,

he is supported bolt upright after he is dead; and continues as erect

after he has expired as before.

The reason of all this is, that a Frenchman requires on the stage

neither nature nor deception, but only wit and sentiment: he requires

only to be diverted, and cares not whether what he sees be a true or

false representation of nature. No body goes here to the theatre for

the pleasure of seeing the play, but for the sake of seeing, and being

seen, by the company, and to catch a subject for conversation after

the play is over. The actor with them is always the actor, never the

character he represents. He who gives himself those important airs of

an universal sovereign is not the emperor Augustus, it is only Baron.

The relict of Pompey is no other than Adrienne, Alzira is mademoiselle

Gaussin, and that formidable savage is no other than the civil

Grandval. The comedians, on the other hand, give themselves no trouble

to keep up an illusion which no body expects. They place the venerable

heroes of antiquity between six rows of young, spruce Parisians: they

have their Roman dresses made up in the French fashion: the weeping

Cornelia is seen bathed in tears, with her rouge laid on two fingers

thick: Cato has his hair dressed and powdered, and Brutus struts along

in a Roman hoop-petticoat; yet no body is shocked at all this

absurdity, nor doth it hinder the success of the piece; for, as the

actors only are seen in the characters, so what respects the author is

the only thing considered in the play; and, though propriety should be

entirely neglected, it is easily excused, for every one knows that

Corneille was no tailor, nor Crebillon a peruke-maker.

Thus, in whatever light we view this people, all is verbosity and

jargon, talk without design, and words without meaning. In the

theatre, as in the world, be as attentive as ye will to what is said,

you will learn nothing of what is done; when a man has spoken, it

would be thought impertinent to enquire after his conduct: he has

spoken, that’s sufficient, and he must stand or fall by what he has

said. The respectable man here is not he that does good actions, but

he that says good things; and a single sentence sometimes

inadvertently uttered shall cast an odium on a man’s character, that

forty years of integrity will not be able to eraze. In a word,

although the conduct of men does not always resemble their discourse,

yet I see they are characterized by their discourse without any regard

to their actions: I have remarked also, that in a great city, society

appears more free, agreeable, and even more safe, than among people

less knowing and less civilized: but I will not pretend to say the

latter are therefore less humane, temperate, or just. On the contrary,

among the former, where every thing is governed by appearances, the

heart is perhaps more hid by external shew, and lies deeper concealed

under agreeable deceptions. It does not belong, however, to me, who am

a stranger, without business, pleasures or connections, to decide

here. I begin, nevertheless, to perceive in myself that intoxication

into which such a busy tumultuous life plunges every one who leads it;

and am affected with a dizziness like that of a man, before whose eyes

a multitude of successive objects pass with rapidity. Not one of

these, which thus strike me, affects my heart; but all together they

so disturb and suspend its affections, that I sometimes forget not

only myself, but even my Eloisa. Every day, on leaving my apartment, I

leave my _observations_ locked up behind me, and proceed to make

others on the frivolous objects which present themselves. Insensibly

I begin to think and reason in the manner of other people; and, if

ever I strive to get the better of their prejudices, and look upon

things as they are, I am immediately borne down by a torrent of words,

which carry with them a shew of reason. The people here will prove to

a demonstration, that none but superficial, half-witted reasoners

regard the reality of things; that the true philosopher considers only

their appearances; that prejudice and prepossession should pass for

principle, decorum for law, and that the most profound wisdom consists

in living like fools.

Thus constrained to pervert the order of the moral affections, to set

a value on chimeras, and put nature and reason to silence, I see with

regret, how sullied and defaced is that divine image, which I cherish

in my breast, once the sole object of my desires, and the only guide

of my conduct: I am borne by one caprice to another, while my

inclinations are continually enslaved by the general opinion, and I am

never certain one day what I shall approve the next.

Abashed and confounded to find my humanity so far debased; to see

myself fallen so low from that innate greatness of mind, to which our

passion had reciprocally elevated us, I return home at night, with a

heart swelling, yet vacant as a ball puffed up with air; sickened with

disgust, and sunk in sorrow. But with what joy do I recollect myself,

when alone! with what transports do I feel the sensations of love

again take possession of my heart, and restore me to the dignity of a

man! O love! how refined are thy sensations! how do I applaud myself

when I see the image of virtue preserve its lustre still in my breast;

when I contemplate thine, my Eloisa! still there, unsullied, sitting

on a throne of glory, and dissipating in a moment my gloomy delusions.

I feel my depressed soul revive; I seem to recover my existence, to

live anew, and to regain, with my love, those sublime sentiments that

render the passion worthy of its object.

Letter LXXXIII. From Eloisa.

I am just returned, my dear friend, from the enjoyment of one of the

most delightful sights I shall ever behold. The most prudent, the most

amiable girl in the world is at length become the most deserving, the

best of women. The worthy man, to whom she has given her hand, lives

only to revere, to cherish, to make her happy; and I feel that

inexpressible pleasure of being a witness to the happiness of my

friend, and of sharing it with her: nor will you, I am convinced,

partake of it less than my self; you, for whom she had always the

tenderest esteem, who were dear to her almost from her infancy, and

have received from her obligations which should render her yet more

dear to you. Yes, we will sympathize with all her sensations; if to

her they give pleasure they shall afford us consolation; for, so great

is the value of that friendship which unites us, that the happiness of

either of the three is sufficient to moderate the afflictions of the

other two. Let us not, however, too highly felicitate ourselves; our

incomparable friend is going in some measure to forsake us. She is

now entered on a new scene of life, is bound by new engagements, and

become subject to new obligations. Her heart, which once was only

ours, will now find room for other affections, to which friendship

must give place. We ought therefore, my friend, to be more scrupulous

hereafter in the services we impose on her zeal; we ought not only to

consult the sincerity of her attachment, and the need we have of her

service, but what may with propriety be required in her present

situation; what may be agreeable or displeasing to her husband. We

have no business to enquire what virtue demands in such a case, the

laws of friendship are sufficient. He, who, for his own sake, could

expose his friend, deserves not to have one. When ours was unmarried,

she was at liberty; she had no body to call her to account for her

conduct, and the uprightness of her intentions was sufficient to

justify her to herself. She considered us as man and wife, destined

for each other; and, her chaste yet susceptible heart, uniting a due

regard for herself to the most tender compassion for her culpable

friend, she concealed my fault without abetting it: but at present,

circumstances are changed; and she is justly accountable to the man,

to whom she has not only plighted her vows, but resigned her liberty.

She is now entrusted not only with her own honour, but with that of

her husband; and it is not enough that she is virtuous, her virtue

must be respected, and her conduct approved: She must not only

_deserve_ the esteem of her husband, but she must _obtain_ it: if he

blames her, she is to blame: and tho’ she be innocent, she is in the

wrong the moment she is suspected; for to study appearances, is an

indispensable part of her duty.

I cannot determine precisely how far I am right in my judgment; I

leave that to you: but there is a monitor within that tells me it is

not right, my cousin should continue to be my confident; nor that she

should be the first to tell me so. I may be frequently mistaken in my

arguments, but I am convinced I am always right in the sensations on

which they are founded; and this makes me confide more in those

sensations than on the deductions of my reason.

From this consideration, I have already formed a pretence to get back

your letters, which, for fear of a surprise I had put into her hands.

She returned them with an oppression of heart, which that of mine made

me easily perceive; and which convinced me I had acted as I ought. We

entered into no explanation, but our looks were sufficiently

expressive; she embraced me, and burst into tears: the tender

sensibility of friendship hath little occasion for the assistance of

language.

With respect to the future address of your letters, I thought

immediately of my little Anet, as the safest; but if this young woman

be inferior in rank to my cousin, is that a reason we should less

regard her virtue? have I not reason, on the contrary, to fear my

example may be more dangerous to one of less elevated sentiments; that

what was only an effort of the sublimest friendship in one, may be the

first step to corruption in the other; and that, in abusing her

gratitude, I may make virtue itself subservient to the promotion of

vice? is it not enough, alas! for me to be culpable, without seducing

accomplices, and aggravating my own crime, by involving others in my

guilt? of this, therefore, no more: I have hit on another expedient,

less safe indeed, but less exceptionable, as it lays nobody open to

censure, nor requires a confident. It is for you to write to me under

a fictitious name; as for example, that of Mr. Bosquet, and to send

your letters under cover addressed to Regianino, whom I shall take

care to instruct. Thus Regianino himself may know nothing of our

correspondence, or at most can only form suspicions, which he dares

not confirm; for Lord B----, on whose favour he depends, has answered

for his fidelity. In the mean time, while our correspondence is

maintained by this means, I will try if it be possible to resume the

method we made use of in your voyage to the Valois, or some other that

may be durable and safe.

There is something in the turn and stile of your letters, that would

convince me, were I even unacquainted with the state of your heart,

that the life you lead at Paris is in no wise agreeable to your

inclinations. The letters of Muralt, of which they so loudly complain

in France, are even less satirical and severe than yours. Like a child

that is angry with its tutors, you revenge the disagreeable necessity

you are under of studying the world, upon your first teachers.

What I am surprized at the most, however, is, that the very

circumstance, which usually prejudices foreigners in favour of the

French, should give you disgust. I mean their polite reception of

strangers, and their general turn of conversation; tho’ by your own

confession, you have met with great civility. I have not forgot your

distinction between Paris in particular, and great cities in general;

but I see plainly, that, without knowing precisely what belongs to

either, you censure without considering whether it be truth or

slander. But, however, this be, the French are my favourites, and you

don’t at all oblige me in reviling them. It is to the many excellent

writings France has produced, that I am indebted for most of those

lessons, by which we have together profited. If Switzerland is emerged

from its ancient barbarity, to whom is it obliged? the two greatest

and most virtuous men in modern story, Catinat and Fenelon, were both

Frenchmen. Henry the fourth, the good king, whose character I admire,

was a Frenchman. If France be not the country of liberty, it is

properly that of men; a superior advantage in the eyes of a

philosopher to that of licentious freedom. Hospitable, protectors of

the stranger, the French overlook real insult, and a man would be

pelted in London for saying half so much against the English, as the

French will bear at Paris. My father, who hath spent the greatest part

of his life in France, never speaks but with rapture of this agreeable

people. If he has spilt his blood in the service of its king, he has

not been forgotten in his retirement, but is still honoured by royal

beneficence. Hence, I think myself in some degree interested in the

glory of a nation, to which that of my father is indebted. If the

people of all nations, my friend, have their good and ill qualities,

you ought surely to pay the same regard to that impartiality which

praises, as to that which blames them.

To be more particular with you, I will ask you why you throw away in

idle visits the time you are to spend at Paris? Is not Paris a

theatre, wherein great talents may be displayed, as well as London?

and do strangers find more difficulties in their way to reputation in

the former, than they do in the latter? believe me, all the English

are not like Lord B----, nor do all the French resemble those fine

talkers that give you so much disgust. Try, put them to the proof,

tho’ it be only to acquire a more intimate acquaintance with their

manners; and judge of people, that you own speak so well, by their

deeds. My cousin’s father says, you know the constitution of the

empire, and the interests of princes. My Lord B---- acknowledges also,

that you are well versed in the principles of politics, and the

various systems of government: and I have got it into my head that of

all countries in the world you will succeed best in that where merit

is most esteemed, and that you want only to be known, to be honourably

employed. As to your religion’s being an obstacle, why should yours be

more so than another’s? is not good sense a security against

fanaticism and persecution? does bigotry prevail more in France, than

in Germany? and is there any thing that should hinder your succeeding

at Paris, as Mr. St. Saphorin has done at Vienna? if you consider the

end, the more speedy your attempts the sooner may you promise yourself

success. If you balance the means, it is certainly more reputable for

a man to advance himself by his own abilities, than to be obliged for

preferment to his friends. But, if you purpose a longer voyage----

ah! that _sea!_----I should like England better if it lay on this side

Paris.----But, a-propos, now I talk of Paris, may I venture to take

notice of another piece of affection, I have remarked in your letters?

how comes it that you, who spoke to me so freely of the women of this

country, say nothing about the Parisian ladies? can those celebrated

and polite females be less worth your description, than the simple and

unpolished inhabitants of the mountains? or are you apprehensive of

giving me uneasiness by a picture of the most charming and seductive

creatures in the universe? If this be the case, my friend, undeceive

your-self, and rest assured, that the worst thing you can do for my

repose is to say nothing about them and that, however, you might

praise them, your silence in that respect is more suspicious than

would be your highest encomiums. I shall be glad also to have some

little account of the opera at Paris, of which we hear such wonders;

[27] for, after all, the music may be bad, and yet the representation

have its beauties; but if not, it will at least, afford a subject for

your criticism, which will offend no body.

I know not whether it be worth while to tell you, that my cousin’s

wedding produced me two suitors; they met here a few days ago; one of

them from Yverdon, hunting all the way from castle to castle, and the

other from Germany, in the stage-coach from Berne. The first is a kind

of smart, that speaks loud and peremptory enough to make his repartees

pass for wit, among those who attend only to his manner. The other is

a great bashful simpleton, whose timidity, however, is not of that

amiable kind which arises from the fear of displeasing; but is owing

to the embarrassment of a blockhead, that knows not what to say, and

the awkwardness of a libertine who is at a loss how to behave himself

in the company of modest women. As I well know the intentions of my

father in regard to these two gentlemen, I took, with pleasure, the

freedom he gave me, of treating them agreeable to my own humour,

which, I believe, is such as will soon get the better of that which

brought them hither. I hate them for their presumption, in pretending

to a heart which is yours, without the least merit to dispute it with

you; yet if they had ever so much, I should hate them the more; but

where could they acquire it? they or any other man in the universe?

no, my dear friend, rest satisfied, it is impossible. Nay, were it

possible that another should be possessed of equal merit, or even that

another _you_ should attack my heart, I should never listen to any but

the first. Be not uneasy, therefore, at these two animals, which I

have with regret condescended to mention. What pleasure should I have

in being able to give them both such equal portions of disgust, as

that they should resolve to depart both together as they came.

M. de Crouzas has lately given us a refutation of the ethic epistles

of Mr. Pope, which I have read, but it did not please me. I will not

take upon me to say which of these two authors is in the right, but I

am conscious that M. de Crouza’s book will never excite the reader to

do any one virtuous action, while our zeal for every thing great and

good is awakened by that of Pope. For my own part, I have no other

rule by which to judge of what I read, than that of consulting the

dispositions in which I rise up from my book, nor can I well conceive

what sort of merit any piece has to boast, the reading of which leaves

no benevolent impression behind it, nor stimulates the reader to any

thing that is good. [28]

Adieu, my dear friend, I would not finish my letter so soon, but am

called away. I leave you with regret, for I am at present in a

chearful disposition, and I love you should partake of my happiness.

The cause which now inspires it is, that my dear mother is much better

within these few days; she has indeed found herself so well as to be

present at the wedding, and to give away her niece, or rather her

other daughter. Poor Clara wept for joy to see her; and I----but you

may judge of my sensations, who, deserving her so little, hourly

tremble at the thoughts of losing her. In fact, she did the honours of

the table, and acquitted herself on the occasion with as good a grace

as if she had been in perfect health. Nay, it seemed to me that some

remains of languor in her disposition rendered her elegant

complacencies still more affecting. Never did this incomparable parent

appear so good, so charming, so worthy to be revered!----Do you know

that she asked Mr. Orbe concerning you several times? Although she

never speaks of you to me, I am not ignorant of her esteem for you;

and that if ever she were consulted, your happiness and mine would be

her first concern. Ah! my friend, if your heart can be truly grateful,

you owe many, many obligations!

Letter LXXIV. To Eloisa.

There, my Eloisa, scold me, quarrel with me, beat me; I will endure

every thing, but I will not cease to acquaint you with my thoughts.

Who should be the depositary of those sentiments you have enlightened,

and with whom should my heart hold converse, if you refuse to hear me?

I give you an account of the observations I have made, and of my own

opinions, not so much for your approbation, as correction; and the

more liable I am to fall into error, the more punctual I should be in

my applications to your judgment. If I censure the manners of the

people in this great city, I do not seek to be justified for taking

this liberty, because I write to you in confidence; for I never say

any thing of a third person, which I would not aver to his face; and

all I write to you concerning the Parisians, is no more than a

repetition of what I daily advance in conversation with themselves:

however, they are not displeased with me, and they even join with me

in many particulars. They complain of our _Muralt_; I am persuaded,

they see, and are convinced, how much he hated them, even in his

panegyricks; but, I am much mistaken, if, in my criticism they do not

perceive the contrary. The esteem and gratitude their generosity

inspires, but increases my freedom; it may be serviceable to some of

them, and, if I may judge from their manner of receiving truth from my

lips, they do not think me below their regard. When this is the case,

my Eloisa, true censure is more laudable than even true praise; for

that only serves to corrupt the heart of those on whom it is bestowed,

and there are none so eager to obtain it as the most worthless; on the

contrary, censure may be useful, and can only be endured by the most

deserving. I sincerely own, I honour the French as the only people in

the world who really love their fellow creatures, and who are

naturally benevolent; but, for this very reason, I am less inclined to

grant them that general admiration they seem to expect, even for the

faults they acknowledge. If the French had no virtues, I should not

mention them; if they had no vices they would not be men: they have

too many excellent qualities for indiscriminate praise.

As to the attempts you mention, they are impracticable, because I

should be obliged to use means which are not only inconvenient, but

which you have also interdicted. Republican austerity is not in vogue

here; they need more flexible virtues, which are more easily adapted

to the interest of their friends or patrons. They respect merit, I

confess, but the talents that acquire reputation are very different

from those which lead to fortune; and, if I am so unfortunate as to

possess the latter only, will Eloisa consent to become the wife of an

adventurer? In England it is quite the contrary, and though their

manners are perhaps less refined than in France, yet they rise to

fortune by more honourable steps, because the people having more share

in the government, public esteem is of more consequence. You are not

ignorant of what Lord B---- proposed to do for me, and of my intention

to justify his zeal. I can have no objection to any spot on the globe

except its distance from you. O Eloisa! if it is difficult to procure

your hand, it is still more difficult to deserve so great a blessing,

and yet, methinks, ’tis a noble task.

The good account you give of your mother’s health, relieved me from

the greatest anxiety. I perceived your distress, even before my

departure, and therefore I durst not express my fears; but I thought

her so changed, that I was apprehensive she would fall into some

dangerous illness, Be careful of her, because she is dear to me,

be cause my heart reveres her, because all my hopes are centered in

her goodness, and because she is the mother of my Eloisa.

As for the two suitors, I own, I do not like to hear of them, even in

jest; but the manner in which you mention them expels my fears, and I

will no longer hate these unfortunate pretenders, since you imagine

they are hated by you: yet I admire your simplicity in believing

yourself capable of hatred. Don’t you perceive that what you take for

hatred, is nothing more than the impatience of insulted love? thus

anxious mourns the amorous turtle when its beloved mate is in danger

of being caught. No, Eloisa, no, incomparable maid! when you are

capable of hatred, I may cease to love you.

P. S. Beset by two importunate rivals! how I pity you! for your own

sake, hasten their dismission.

Letter LXXXV. From Eloisa.

I have delivered into Mr. Orbe’s hands a packet which he has engaged

to forward to M. Sylvester, from whom you will receive it; but I

caution you, my dear friend, not to open it, till you retire into your

own chamber, and are quite alone. You will find in this packet a small

trinket for your particular use.

’Tis a kind of charm which lovers gladly wear. The manner of using it

is very whimsical. It must be contemplated for a quarter of an hour

every morning, or until it softens the spectator into a certain degree

of tenderness. It is then applied to the eyes, the mouth, and next to

the heart: and it is generally esteemed the best preservative against

the noxious air of a country infected with gallantry. They even

attribute an electrical quality, to these talismans, which is very

singular, but which acts only upon faithful lovers. They say it

communicates the impression of kisses from one to the other, though at

the distance of a hundred leagues. I do not pretend to warrant the

success of this charm from experience; only, this I know, it is your

own fault if you do not put it to the proof.

Calm your fears with regard to my two gallants, or pretenders, call

them which you please. They are gone: let them depart in peace; I

shall no longer hate them, since they are out of my sight.

Letter LXXXVI. To Eloisa.

And so, my Eloisa, you insist on a description of these Parisian

ladies? vain girl! but it is a homage due to your charms.

Notwithstanding all your affected jealousy, your modesty, and your

love, I have discovered more vanity than fear disguised under this

curiosity. Be it as it will, I shall be just; I may safely speak the

truth; but I should undertake the taste with better spirits if I had

more to praise. Why are they not a hundred times more lovely! would

they had sufficient charms, to reflect new excellence upon yours by

the comparison!

You complain of my silence: good heaven! what could I have written?

when you have read this letter, you will perceive why I take pleasure

in speaking of your neighbours, the Valesian ladies, and why I have

hitherto neglected to mention those of this country: the first

continually remind me of you, my Eloisa, but the others----read, and

you will know. Few people think of the French ladies as I do, if

indeed, I am not quite singular in my opinion. Equity obliges me

therefore to give you this hint, that you may suppose I delineate

them, perhaps, not as they are in reality, but as they appear to me.

Nevertheless, if I am not just in my description, I know you will

censure me; and then will your injustice be greater than mine, because

the fault is entirely your own.

Let us begin with their exterior qualities; the greatest number of

observers proceed no farther should I follow their example, the women

in this country would have great cause to be dissatisfied: they have

an _exterior_ character as well as an _exterior_ face, and as neither

one or the other is much to their advantage, it would be unjust to

form our opinions of them from either. Their figure, for the most

part, is only tolerable, and in the general rather indifferent than

perfect; yet there are exceptions. They are slender rather than well-

made, and therefore they gladly embrace the fashions which disguise

them most; but, I find that in other countries, the women are foolish

enough to imitate there fashions, tho’ contrived merely to hide

defects which they have not.

Their air is easy and natural, their manner free and unaffected,

because they hate all restraint; but they have a certain

_disinvoltura_, [29] which, though it is not entirely destitute of

grace, they frequently carry, even to a degree of absurdity. Their

complexion is moderately fair, and they are commonly pale, which does

not in the least add to their beauty. With regard to their necks, they

are in the opposite extreme to the Valesians. Conscious of this

defect, they endeavour to supply it by art; nor are they less

scrupulous in borrowing an artificial whiteness. Though I have never

seen these objects but at a distance, they expose so much of

themselves, that they leave the spectators very little room for

conjecture. In this case, these ladies seem not to understand their

own interest; for if the face is but moderately handsome, the

imagination heightens every concealed charm, and according to the

gascon philosopher, there is no appetite so strong as that which was

never satisfied, especially in this sense.

Their features are not very regular, but they have something in their

countenance which supplies the place of beauty, and which is sometimes

much more agreeable. Their eyes are quick and sparkling, yet they are

neither penetrating nor sweet: they strive to animate them by the help

of rouge, but the expression they acquire by this means, has more of

anger in it than love; nature has given them sprightliness only, and

though they sometimes seem to solicit tenderness, they never promise a

return. [30]

They have acquired so great a reputation for their judgment in dress,

that they are patterns to all Europe. Indeed, it is impossible to

adapt such absurd fashions with more taste. They are, of all women,

the least under subjection to their own modes. Fashion governs in the

provinces, but the Parisians govern fashion, and every one of them is

skilled in suiting it to her own advantage: the first are ignorant and

servile plagiarists, who copy even orthographical errors; the latter

are like authors, who imitate with judgment, and have abilities to

correct the mistakes of their original.

Their apparel is more uncommon than magnificent, more elegant than

rich. The rapid succession of their fashions renders them old and

obsolete even from one year to another; that neatness which induces

them to change their dress so frequently, preserves them from much

ridiculous magnificence; they do not however spend less money on that

account, but their expenses are, by this means, better conducted. They

differ greatly in this particular from the Italians; instead of superb

trimmings and embroidery, their cloaths are always plain and new. Both

sexes observe the same moderation and delicacy, which is extremely

pleasing: for my part I like to see a coat neither laced nor foiled.

There is no nation in the world, except our own, where the people,

especially the women, wear less gold and silver. The same kind of

stuffs are wore by people of all ranks, so that it would be difficult

to distinguish a duchess from a citizen, if the first had not some

marks of distinction which the other dares not imitate. But this seems

to have its inconveniences, for whatever is the fashion at court, is

immediately followed in the city, and you never see in Paris, as in

other countries, a beau or belle of the last age. Nevertheless, it is

not here as in most other places, where the people of the highest

rank, being also the richest, the women of fashion distinguish

themselves by a degree of luxury which cannot be equalled. Had the

ladies of the court of France attempted this kind of distinction, they

would very soon have been eclipsed by the wives of the citizens.

What then do you think was their resource? why they took a much more

effectual method, and which required more abilities. They knew that

the minds of the people were deeply impressed with a sense of

bashfulness and modesty. This suggested to them fashions not to be

easily imitated. They perceived that the people could not endure the

thoughts of _rouge_, and that they obstinately persisted in calling it

by the vulgar name of paint, and therefore they daubed their cheeks,

not with paint, but with _rouge_; for change but the name, and ’tis no

longer the same thing. They also perceived that a bare neck was

scandalous in the eyes of the public; and, for that reason, they chose

to enlarge the scene. They saw----many things, which, my Eloisa,

young as she is, will never see. In their manners they are governed

exactly by the same principle. That charming diffidence which

distinguishes and adorns the sex, they despise as ignoble and vile;

they animate their actions and discourse with a noble assurance, and,

I am confident, they would look any modest man out of countenance.

Thus they cease to be women, to avoid being confounded with the

vulgar; they prefer their rank to their sex, and imitate women of

pleasure that they themselves may be above imitation.

I know not how far they may have carried _their_ imitation, but I am

certain they have not succeeded in their design to prevent it in

others. As to _rouge_, and the fashion of displaying those charms,

which they ought to conceal, they have made all the progress that was

possible. The ladies of the city had much rather renounce their

natural complexion, and the charms they might borrow from the amoroso

_pensier_ [31] of their lovers, than preserve the appearance of what

they are; and if this example has not prevailed among the lower sort

of people, ’tis only because they are afraid of being insulted by the

populace; and thus are an infinite number of women kept within the

bounds of decency, by the fear of offending the delicacy of the mob.

Their masculine air, and dragon-like deportment is less striking

because so universal; it is conspicuous only to strangers. From one

end of this metropolis to the other there is scarce a woman whose

appearance is not sufficiently bold to disconcert any man who has

never been accustomed to the like in his own country; from this

astonishment proceeds that awkward confusion which they attribute to

all strangers, and which increases the moment she opens her lips. They

have not the sweet voice of our country-women; their accent is hoarse,

sharp, interrogative, imperious, jibing, and louder than that of a

man. If, in the tone of their voice, they retain any thing feminine,

it is entirely lost in the impertinence of their manner. They seem to

enjoy the bashful confusion of every foreigner; but it would probably

give them less pleasure, if they were acquainted with its true cause.

Whether it be, that I, in particular, am prejudiced in favour of

beauty, or whether the power of beauty may not universally influence

the judgment, I know not; but the handsomest women appear to me,

rather the most decent in their dress, and in general, behave with the

greatest modesty. They lose nothing by this reserve; conscious of

their advantages, they know they have no need of borrowed allurements

to attract our admiration. It may be also, that impudence is more

intolerably disgusting when joined with ugliness; for certainly, I

should much sooner be tempted to affront an impertinent ugly woman,

than to embrace her; whereas, by modesty, she might excite, even a

tender compassion, which is often a harbinger of love. But, though it

is generally remarked, that the prettiest women are the best behaved,

yet they are often so extremely affected, and are always so evidently

taken up with themselves, that, in this country, there is little

danger of being exposed to that temptation which M. de Muralt

sometimes experienced amongst the English ladies, of telling a woman

she was handsome, only for the pleasure of persuading her to think so.

Neither the natural gaiety of the French, nor their love of

singularity, is the cause of this freedom of conversation and

behaviour for which these ladies are so remarkable; but it is rather

to be deduced from their manners, by which they are authorized to

spend all their time in the company of men; and hence it is, that the

behaviour of each sex seems to be copied from the other.

Our Swiss ladies, on the contrary, are fond of little female

assemblies, in which they are extremely social and happy; [32] for,

though they probably may not dislike the company of men, yet it is

certain their presence is some constraint upon them.

In Paris it is quite the reverse; the women are never easy nor

satisfied without the men. In most companies, the lady of the house is

seen alone amidst a circle of gentlemen, and this is so generally the

case, that one cannot help wondering how such an unequal proportion of

men can be every where assembled. But Paris is full of _avanturiers_,

priests and abbés, who spend their whole lives in running from house

to house. Thus the women learn to think, act and speak from the men,

whilst these, in return, imbibe a certain degree of effeminacy; and

this seems the only consequence of their trifling gallantry: however,

they enjoy a fulsome adoration, in which their devotees do not think

it worth while to preserve even the appearance of sincerity. No

matter: in the midst of her circle, she is the sole object of

attention, and that’s sufficient. But, if a second female enters the

room, familiarity instantly gives place to ceremony, the high airs of

quality are assumed, the adoration becomes divided, and each continues

to be a secret constraint upon the other till the company breaks up.

The Parisian ladies are fond of public diversions: that is, they are

fond of shewing themselves in public; but the great difficulty, every

time they go, is to find a female companion, for decorum will not

allow one lady alone to appear in the boxes, even though attended by

her husband, or by any other man. It is amazing, in this very social

country, how difficult it is to form these parties; out of ten that

are proposed, nine generally miscarry: they are projected by the

desire of being seen, and are broken by the disagreeable necessity for

a sister petticoat. I should imagine it an easy matter for the ladies

to abolish this ridiculous custom. What reason can there be why a

woman should not be seen alone in public? perhaps, there being no

reason for it, is the very cause of its continuance. However, upon the

whole, it may be prudent to preserve decency where the abolition would

be attended with no great satisfaction. What great matter would there

be in the privilege of appearing alone at the opera? is it not much

better to reserve this exclusive privilege for the private reception

of one’s friends in one’s own house?

Nothing can be more certain than that this custom of being alone

amidst such a number of men, is productive of many secret connections:

indeed the world is pretty well convinced of it, since experience has

proved the absurdity of that maxim, which told us, that by multiplying

temptations we should destroy them; so that they do not defend this

fashion for its decency, but that it is most agreeable; which, by the

by, I do not believe. How can any love exist, where modesty is held in

derision? and what pleasure can there be in a life which is at once

deprived both of love and decency? but as the want of entertainment is

the greatest evil which these slaves to dissipation have to fear, the

ladies are solicitous for amusement rather than love; gallantry and

attendance is all they require, and provided their danglers are

assiduous, they are very indifferent about the violence or sincerity

of their passion. The words _love_ and _lover_ are entirely banished

even from the most private intercourse of the sexes, and are sunk into

oblivion with the _darts_ and _flames_ of ancient romance.

One would imagine that the whole order of natural sensations was here

reversed. A girl is to have no feelings, passions, or attachments;

that privilege is reserved for the married women, and excludes no

paramour except their husbands. The mother had better have twenty

lovers, than her daughter one. Adultery is considered as no crime, and

conveys no indecency in the idea: their romances, which are

universally read for instruction, are full of it, and there appears

nothing shocking in its consequences, provided the lovers do not

render themselves contemptible by their fidelity. O Eloisa! there are

many women in this city, who have defiled their marriage-bed a hundred

times, yet would presume, with the voice of impurity, to slander an

union like ours, that is yet unsullied with infidelity.

It should seem that in Paris, marriage is a different institution from

what it is in other parts of the world: they call it a sacrament, and

yet it has not half the power of a common contract. It appears to be

nothing more than a private agreement between two persons to live

together, to bear the same name, and acknowledge the same children;

but who, in other respects, have no authority one over the other. If

at Paris a man should pretend to be offended with the ill conduct of

his wife, he would be as generally despised, as if, in our country, he

was to take no notice of her scandalous behaviour. Nor are the ladies

on their parts less indulgent to their husbands; for I have not yet

heard of an instance of their being punished for having imitated the

infidelity of their wives. In short, what other effect can be expected

from an union in which their hearts were never consulted? those who

marry fortune or title, seem to be under no personal obligation.

Love, even love, has lost its privilege, and is no less degenerated

than marriage. As man and wife may be looked upon as a bachelor and a

maid, who live together for the sake of enjoying more liberty; so are

lovers a kind of people, who, with great indifference, meet for

amusement, through custom, or out of vanity. The heart is entirely

unconcerned in these attachments, in which nothing more than certain

external conveniences are ever consulted: it is, in short, to know

each other, to dine together, now and then to exchange a few words,

or, if possible, even less than this. An affair of gallantry lasts but

a little longer than a visit, and consists chiefly in a few genteel

conversations, and three or four pretty letters, filled with

descriptions, maxims, philosophy, and wit. As to experimental

philosophy, it does not require so much mystery; they have wisely

discovered the folly of letting slip any opportunity of gratification:

whether it happens to be the lover or any other man, a man is a man,

and why should a lady be more scrupulous of being guilty of an

infidelity to her lover than to her husband? after a certain age they

may all be considered as the same kind of puppets, made up by the same

fashion monger, and consequently the first that comes to hand is

always the best.

Knowing nothing of these matters from experience, I can relate only

what I have heard; and indeed, the representation is so very

extraordinary, that I have but an imperfect idea of what I have been

told. That which I chiefly comprehend is, that the gallant is

generally regarded as one of the family; that if the lady happens to

be dissatisfied with him, he is dismissed, or if he meets with a

service more to his inclination or advantage, he takes his leave, and

she engages a fresh one. There are, I have been told, some ladies so

capricious as even to take up with their own husbands for a while,

considering them, at least, as a kind of male creature; but this whim

seldom lasts long: as soon as it is past, the good man is entirely

discarded, or, if he should happen to be obstinate, why then she takes

another and keeps them both.