But I could not help objecting to the person who gave me this strange

account, how it was possible, after this, to live among these

discarded lovers. Live among them, says he, why, they are entire

strangers to her ever after; and if they should, by chance, take it

into their heads to renew their amours, they would have to begin anew,

and would hardly be able to recollect their former acquaintance. I

understand you, I replied, but I have great difficulty in reconciling

these extravagancies. I cannot conceive how it is possible, after such

a tender union, to see each other without emotion; how the heart can

avoid palpitation, even at the name of a person once beloved; why they

do not tremble when they meet. You make me laugh, says he, with your

tremblings: and so you would have our ladies continually fainting

away.

Suppress a part of this caricature representation; place my Eloisa in

opposition to the rest, and remember the sincerity of my heart: I have

nothing more to add.

However, I must confess, that many of these disagreeable impressions

are effaced by custom. Though the dark side of their character may

first catch our attention, it is no reason why we should be blind to

their amiable qualities. The charms of their understanding and good

humour are no small addition to their personal accomplishments. Our

first repugnance overcome frequently generates a contrary sentiment.

It is not just to view the picture only in its worst point of sight.

The first inconveniency of great cities is, that mankind are generally

disguised, and that in society they appear different from what they

really are. This is particularly true in Paris with regard to the

ladies, who derive from the observation of others, the only existence

about which they are solicitous. When you meet a lady in public,

instead of seeing a Parisian, as you imagine, you behold only a

phantom of the fashion: her stature, dimension, gait, shape, neck,

colour, air, look, language, every thing is assumed; so that, if you

were to see her in her natural state, you would not know her to be the

same creature. But this universal mask is greatly to her disadvantage;

for nature’s substitutes are always inferior to herself: besides, it

is almost impossible to conceal her entirely; in spite of us, she will

now and then discover herself, and in seizing her with dexterity

consists the true art of observation. This is indeed no difficult

matter in conversing with the women of this country, for, if you take

them off their grand theatre of representation, and consider them

attentively, you will see them as they really are, and it is then

possible that your aversion may be changed into esteem and friendship.

I had an opportunity of verifying this remark last week, on a party of

pleasure, to which, along with some other strangers, I was, abruptly

enough, invited by a company of ladies, probably with a design to

laugh at us without constraint or interruption. The first day the

project succeeded to their wish: they immediately began to dart their

wit and pleasantry in showers, but as their arrows were not retorted,

their quivers were soon empty. They then behaved with great decency,

and finding themselves unable to bring us to _their_ stile, they were

obliged to conform to ours. Whether they were pleased with it or not I

am ignorant; however, the change was very agreeable to me, for I soon

found that I stood a better chance to profit by the conversation of

these females, than from the generality of men. Their wit now appeared

so great an ornament to their natural good sense, that I changed my

opinion of the sex, and could not help lamenting, that so many amiable

women should want reason, only because it is their humour to reject

it. I perceived also that their natural graces began insensibly to

efface the artificial airs of the city: for, without design, our

manner is generally influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is

impossible to introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational

conversation. They appeared much more handsome after they grew

indifferent about it, and I perceived, that if they would please, they

need only throw off their affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude,

that Paris, the pretended seat of taste, is of all places in the

world, that in which there is the least; since all their methods of

pleasing are destructive of real beauty.

Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each

other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its

innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our

whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We

wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our

laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.

I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these

females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would

come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,

shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable

time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this

correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,

however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that

though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.

But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed

Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the

parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of

their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,

regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit

with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a form of hail, was

going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to

make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent

in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in

favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I

was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little

ostentation this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable

offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,

she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard

her with respect, and all her faults vanished.

My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a

thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before

appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,

provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the

world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more

judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,

Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and

wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my

Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.

But if, with a French woman, humour to reject it. I perceived also

that their natural graces began insensibly to efface the artificial

airs of the city: for, without design, our manner is generally

influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is impossible to

introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational conversation. They

appeared much more handsome after they grew indifferent about it, and

I perceived, that if they would please, they need only throw off their

affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude, that Paris, the pretended

seat of taste, is of all places in the world, that in which there is

the least; since all their methods of pleasing are destructive of real

beauty.

Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each

other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its

innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our

whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We

wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our

laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.

I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these

females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would

come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,

shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable

time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this

correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,

however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that

though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.

But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed

Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the

parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of

their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,

regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit

with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a storm of hail, was

going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to

make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent

in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in

favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I

was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little

ostentation, this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable

offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,

she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard

her with respect, and all her faults vanished.

My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a

thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before

appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,

provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the

world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more

judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,

Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and

wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my

Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.

But if, with a French woman, a man has resolution to sacrifice his

pretensions to gallantry, and to draw her out of that favourite

fortress, she will then make a virtue of necessity, and arming herself

with reason, will fight manfully in the open field. With regard to

their goodness of heart. I will not instance their zeal to serve their

friends; for, as with the rest of mankind, that may partly proceed

from self-love. But, though they generally love no body but

themselves, long habit will frequently produce in them the effects of

a sincere friendship. Those who have constancy enough to support an

attachment of ten years, commonly continue it to the end of their

lives, and they will then love their old friends with more tenderness,

at least with more fidelity than their new lovers.

One common accusation against the women of France is, that they do

every thing, and consequently more evil than good; but it may be

observed in their justification, that in doing evil they are

stimulated by the men, and in doing good are actuated by their own

principles. This does not in any ways contradict what I said before,

that the heart has no concern in the commerce between the two sexes;

for the gallantry of the French has given to the women an universal

power, which stands in no need of tenderness to support it. Every

thing depends upon the ladies; all things are done by them or for

them; Olympus and Parnassus, glory and fortune, are equally subject to

their laws. Neither books nor authors have any other value or esteem

than that which the ladies are pleased to allow them. There is no

appeal from their decree in matters of the nicest judgment or most

trivial taste. Poetry, criticism, history, philosophy, are all

calculated for the ladies, and even the bible itself has lately been

metamorphosed into a polite romance. In public affairs, their

influence arises from their natural ascendency over their husbands,

not because they are their husbands, but because they are men, and it

would be monstrous for a man to refuse any thing to a lady, even

though she were his wife.

Yet this authority implies neither attachment nor esteem, but merely

politeness and compliance with custom; for it is as essential to

French gallantry to despise the women as to oblige them; and this

contempt is taken as a proof, that a man has seen enough of the world

to know the sex. Whoever treats them with respect is deemed a novice,

a knight-errant, one who has known woman only in romances. They judge

so equitably of themselves, that to honour them is to forfeit their

esteem; so that the principal requisite in a man of gallantry is

superlative impertinence.

Let the ladies of this country pretend what they will, they are, in

spite of themselves, extremely good-natured. All men who are burthened

with a multiplicity of affairs, are difficult of access, and without

commiseration; and in Paris, the center of business of one of the most

considerable nations in Europe, the men of consequence are

particularly obdurate: those, therefore, who have any thing to ask,

naturally apply to the ladies, whose ears are never shut against the

unhappy; they console and serve them. In the midst of all their

frivolous dissipation, they do not scruple to steal a few moments from

their pleasure, and devote them to acts of benevolence; and though

there may be some women mean enough to make an infamous traffic of

their services, there are hundreds, on the contrary, who are daily

employed in charitably assisting the distressed. However, it must be

confessed, that they are sometimes so indiscreet, as to ruin an

unfortunate man they happen not to know, in order to serve their own

friend. But how is it possible to know every body in so extensive a

country? or how can more be expected from good-nature destitute of

real virtue, whose sublimest effort is not so much to do good, as to

avoid evil? After all, it must be allowed that their inclinations are

not naturally bad; that they do a great deal of good; that they do it

from their hearts; that they alone preserve the remains of humanity,

which are still to be found in Paris; and that without them, we should

see the men avaricious and insatiable, like wolves devouring each

other.

I should have remained ignorant of all this, if I had not consulted

their comedies and romances, whose authors are, perhaps, too apt to

stumble upon those foibles from which they themselves are not exempt,

rather than the virtues they happen not to possess; who, instead of

encouraging their readers by praising their real virtues, amuse

themselves with painting imaginary characters too perfect for

imitation.

Romances are perhaps the last vehicle of instruction that can be

administered to a corrupt people. It were to be wished that none were

suffered to prepare this medicine but men of honest principles and

true sensibility; authors, whose writings should be a picture of their

own hearts; who, instead of fixing virtue in the heavens, beyond the

reach of our nature, would, by smoothing the way, insensibly tempt us

out of the gulph of vice.

But to return to the Parisian ladies; concerning whom, I do not by any

means agree in the common opinion. They are universally allowed to

have the most enchanting address, the most seducing manner, to be the

most refined coquets, to possess the most sublime gallantry, and the

art of pleasing to a most superlative degree. For my part, I think

their address shocking, their coquettish airs disgusting, and their

manner extremely immodest. I should imagine that the heart would

shrink back at all their advances, and I can never be persuaded, that

they can for a single moment, talk of love, without shewing themselves

incapable of either feeling or inspiring that tender passion.

On the other hand, we find them represented frivolous, artful, false,

thoughtless, inconstant, talking well, but without reflection or

sentiment, and evaporating all their merit in idle chit-chat. But to

me, all this appears to be as external as their hoops or _rouge_. They

are a kind of fashionable vices, which are supposed necessary at

Paris, but which are not incompatible with sense, reason, humanity and

good-nature. These ladies are, in many cases, more discreet, and less

given to tattling than those of any other country. They are better

instructed, and the things they are taught have a stronger effect

upon their judgment. In short, if I dislike them for having disfigured

the proper characteristics of their sex, I esteem them for those

virtues in which they resemble us; and, my opinion is, that they are

better calculated to be men of merit, than amiable women.

One word more and I have done. If Eloisa had never been, if my heart

had been capable of any other attachment than that for which it was

created, I should never have taken a wife or mistress in Paris; but I

should gladly have chosen a friend, and such a treasure might possibly

have consoled me for the want of the others. [33]

Letter LXXXVII. To Eloisa.

Since the receipt of your letter, I have been daily with Mr.

Silvester, to see after the packet you mentioned: but my impatience

has been seven times disappointed. At length, however, on the eighth

time of going, I received it; and it was no sooner put into my hands,

than, without staying to pay the postage, even without asking what it

came to, or speaking a word to any body, I ran with it out of doors;

and, as if I had been out of my senses passed by the door of my

lodgings, though it stood open before me, and traversed a number of

streets that I knew nothing of, till in about half an hour I found

myself at the farther end of Paris. I was then obliged to take a

hackney coach in order to get the more speedily home, which is the

first time I have made use of those conveniences in a morning; indeed

it is with regret I use them even in an afternoon, to pay some distant

visits; for my legs are good, and I should be sorry that any

improvement in my circumstances should make me neglect the use of

them.

When I was seated in the coach, I was a good deal perplexed with my

packet; as you had laid your injunctions on me to open it no where but

at home. Besides, I was unwilling to be subject to any interruption in

opening the packet, and indulging myself in that exquisite

satisfaction, I find in every thing that comes from you. I held it

therefore with an impatience and curiosity which I could scarce

contain: endeavouring to discover its contents through the covers, by

pressing it every way with my hands; from the continual motions of

which you would have thought the packet contained fire, and burned the

ends of my fingers. Not but that from its size, weight, and the

contents of your former letter, I had some suspicion; but then, how

could I conceive you to have found either the opportunity or the

artist? but what I then could not conceive, is one of the miracles of

almighty love: the more it surpasses my conception, the more it

enchants my heart, and one of the greatest pleasures it gives me

arises from my ignorance in the manner in which you could effect it.

Arrived at length at my lodgings, I flew to my chamber, locked the

door, threw myself, out of breath, into a chair, and with a trembling

hand broke open the seal. ’Twas then, Eloisa, I felt the first effect

of this powerful talisman. The palpitations of my heart increased at

every paper I unfolded; till coming to the last, I was forced to stop

and take breath a moment, before I could open it. It is open----my

suggestions are true,----it is so,----it is the portrait of Eloisa.

----O , my love! your divine image is before me; I gaze with rapture

on your charms! my lips, my heart, pay them the first homage, my

knees bend;----Again, my eyes are ravished with thy heavenly

beauties. How immediate, how powerful, is their magical effect! no

Eloisa, it requires not, as you pretend, a quarter of an hour to make

itself perceived; a minute, an instant suffices, to draw from my

breast a thousand ardent sighs, and to recall, with thy image, the

remembrance of my past happiness. Ah! why is the rapture of having

such a treasure in possession allayed with so much bitterness? how

lively is the representation it gives me of days that are no more!

I gaze on the portrait, I think I see Eloisa, and enjoy in

imagination those delightful moments, whose remembrance imbitters

my present hours; and which heaven in its anger bestowed on me only

to take them away. Alas! the next instant undeceives me; the pangs

of absence throb with increased violence, after the agreeable

delusion is vanished, and I am in the fate of those miserable

wretches, whose tortures are remitted only to render them the more

cruel. Heavens! what flames have not my eager eyes darted on this

unexpected object! how has the sight of it roused in me those

impetuous emotions, which used to be effected by your presence! O,

my Eloisa, were it possible for this talisman to affect your senses

with the phrenzy and illusion of mine----But why is it not possible?

why may not those impressions, which the mind darts forth with such

rapidity, reach as far as Eloisa? Ah, my charming friend! wherever

you are, or however you are employed, at the time I am now writing,

at the time your portrait receives the same homage I pay to the idol

of my soul, do you not perceive your charming face bedewed with

tears? do you not sympathize with me in love and sorrow? do you not

feel the ardour of a lover’s kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your

breast? do you not glow all over with the flame imparted from my

burning lips?----Ha! what’s that?----some body knocks----I will hide

my treasure----an impertinent breaks in upon me,----accursed be the

cruel intruder, for interrupting me in transports so delightful, may

he never be capable of love,----or may he be doomed to pine in

absence, like me.

Letter LXXXVIII. To Mrs. Orbe.

It is to you, dear cousin, I am to give an account of the French

opera; for, although you have not mentioned it in your own letters,

and Eloisa has kept your secret in hers, I am not at a loss to whom to

attribute that piece of curiosity. I have been once at the opera to

satisfy myself, and twice to oblige you, but am in hopes, however,

this letter will be my excuse for going no more. If you command me,

indeed, I can bear it again; I can suffer, I can sleep there, for your

service; but to remain awake and attentive is absolutely impossible.

But, before I tell you what I think of this famous theatre, I will

give you an account of what they say of it here; the opinion of the

connoisseurs may perhaps rectify mine, where I happen to be mistaken.

The French opera passes at Paris for the most pompous, the most

delightful, the most wonderful entertainment that was ever effected by

the united efforts of the human genius. It is said to be the most

superb monument of the magnificence of Louis the fourteenth. In fact,

every one is not so much at liberty, as you imagine, to give his

opinion on so grave a subject. Every thing may be made a point of

dispute here, except music and the opera; but with respect to these,

it may be dangerous not to dissemble one’s thoughts, as the French

music is supported by an inquisition no less arbitrary than severe.

Indeed the first lesson which strangers are taught, is, that

foreigners universally allow that nothing in the whole world is so

fine as the opera at Paris. The truth is, discreet people are silent

upon this topic, because they dare not laugh, except in private.

It must be allowed, however, that they represent at the opera, at a

vast expense, not only all the wonderful things in nature, but many

others still more wonderful, and which nature never produced. For my

part, I cannot help thinking Mr. Pope meant this theatre, where he

said, one might see there, mixed in one scene of confusion, gods,

devils, monsters, kings, shepherds, fairies, madness, joy, a wild-

fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball.

This assemblage, so magnificent and well conducted, is regarded by the

spectators as if all the things and characters exhibited were real. On

seeing the representation of a heathen temple, they are seized with a

profound reverence; and, if the goddess be at all pretty, half the men

in the pit are immediately pagans.

Here the audience is not so nice as at the French comedy. Those very

spectators, who could not there consider the player as the character

he represented, cannot, at the opera consider him any otherwise. It

seems as if they were shocked at a national deception, and could give

into nothing but what was grossly absurd; or perhaps they can more

easily conceive players to be gods than heroes. Jupiter being of

another nature, people may think of him as they please; but Cato was a

man, and how few men are there, who, to judge from themselves, have

any reason to think such a man as Cato ever existed.

This opera is not composed, therefore, as in other places, of a

company of mercenaries, hired to furnish out an entertainment for the

public. It is true, they are paid by the public, and it is their

business to attend the opera: but the nature of it is quite changed by

its becoming a royal academy of music, a sort of sovereign tribunal

that judges without appeal in its own cause, and is not very

remarkable for justice and integrity. Thus you see, how much in some

countries the essence of things depends on mere words, and how a

respectable title may do honour to that which least deserves it.

The members of this illustrious academy are not degraded by their

profession: in revenge, however, they are excommunicated, which is

directly contrary to the custom of all other countries: but, perhaps,

having had their choice, they had rather live honourably and be

damned, than go, as plebeians, vulgarly to heaven. I have seen a

modern chevalier, on the French theatre, as proud of the profession of

a player, as the unfortunate Laberius was formerly mortified at it,

although the latter was forced into it by the commands of Caesar, and

recited only his own works. [34] But then our degraded ancient could

not afterwards take his place in the circus among the Roman knights;

whilst the modern one found his every day at the French comedy, among

the first nobility in the kingdom. And I will venture to say, never

did they talk at Rome with so much respect, of the majesty of the

Roman people, as they do at Paris, of the majesty of the opera.

This is what I have gathered chiefly from conversation about this

splendid entertainment; I will now relate to you what I have seen of

it myself.

Imagine to yourself the inside of a large box, about fifteen feet

wide, and long in proportion: this box is the stage; on each side are

placed screens, at different distances, on which the objects of the

scene are coarsely painted. Beyond there is a great curtain, bedaubed

in the same manner; which extends from one side to the other, and is

generally cut through, to represent caves in the earth, and openings

in the heavens, as the perspective requires. So that, if any person,

in walking behind the scenes, should happen to brush against the

curtain, he might cause an earthquake so violent as to shake----our

sides with laughing. The skies are represented by a parcel of bluish

rags, hung up with lines and poles, like wet linen at the washer-

woman’s. The sun, for he is represented here sometimes, is a large

candle in a lanthorn. The chariots of the gods and goddesses are made

of four bits of wood, nailed together in the form of a square, and

hung up by a strong cord, like a swing: across the middle is fastened

a board, on which the deity sits a straddle; and in the front of it

hangs a piece of coarse canvas, bedaubed with paint, to represent the

clouds that attend on this magnificent car. The bottom of this

machine is illuminated by two or three stinking, unsnuffed candles,

which, as often as the celestial personage bustles about and shakes

his swing, smoke him deliciously, with incense worthy such a divinity.

As these chariots are the most considerable machines of the opera, you

may judge by them of the rest. A troubled sea is made of long rollers

covered with canvas or blue paper, laid parallel and turned by the

dirty understrappers of the theatre. Their thunder is a heavy cart,

which rumbles over the floor’d ceiling, and is not the least affecting

instrument of their agreeable music. The flashes of lightning are made

by throwing powdered rosin into the flame of a link; and the falling

thunderbolt is a cracker at the end of a squib.

The stage is provided with little square trap doors; which, opening on

occasion, give notice that the infernal demons are coming out of the

cellar. And when they are to be carried up into the air, they

substitute dexterously in their room little devils of brown canvas

stuffed with straw, or sometimes real chimney-sweepers, that are drawn

up by ropes, and ride triumphant through the air till they

majestically enter the clouds, and are lost among the dirty rags I

mentioned. But what is really tragical is, that when the tackle is not

well managed, or the ropes happen to break, down come infernal spirits

and immortal gods together, and break their limbs and sometimes their

necks. To all this I shall add their monsters; which certainly make

some scenes very pathetic, such as their dragons, lizards, tortoises,

crocodiles, and great toads, all which stalk or crawl about the stage

with a threatening air, and put one in mind of the temptation of St.

Anthony: every one of these figures being animated by a looby of a

Savoyard, that has not sense enough to play the brute.

Thus you see, cousin, in what consists, in a great degree, the

splendid furniture of the opera; at least, thus much I could observe

from the pit, with the help of my glass; for you must not imagine

these expedients are much hid, or produce any great illusion: I only

tell you here what I saw, and what every other unprejudiced spectator

might have seen as well as myself. I was told, nevertheless, that a

prodigious quantity of machinery is employed to effect all these

motions, and was several times offered a sight of it; but I was never

curious to see in what manner extraordinary efforts were made to be

productive of insignificant effects.

The number of people engaged in the service of the opera is

inconceivable. The orchestra and chorus together consist of near an

hundred persons: there is a multitude of dancers, every part being

doubly and triply supplied, [35] that is to say, there is always one or

two inferior actors ready to take the place of the principal, and who

are paid for doing nothing, till the principal is pleased to do

nothing in his turn, and which is seldom long before it happens. After

a few representations, the chief actors, who are personages of great

consequence, honour the public no more with their presence in that

piece, but give up their parts to their substitutes, or to the

substitutes of those substitutes. They receive always the same money

at the door, but the spectator does not always meet with the same

entertainment. Every one takes a ticket, as he does in the lottery,

without knowing what will be his prize; but, be what it will, no body

dares complain; for you are to know, that the honourable members of

this academy owe the public no manner of respect, it is the public

which owes it to them.

I will say nothing to you of their music, because you are acquainted

with it. But you can have no idea of the frightful cries and hideous

bellowings, with which the theatre resounds during the representation.

The actresses, throwing themselves into convulsions as it were, rend

their lungs with squeaking: in the mean time, with their fists

clenched against their stomach their heads thrown back, their faces

red, their veins swelled, and their breasts heaving, one knows not

which is most disagreeably affected, the eye or the ear. Their actions

make those suffer as much who see them, as their singing does those

who hear them; and yet what is inconceivable is, that these howlings

are almost the only thing the audience applaud. By the clapping of

their hands, one would imagine them a parcel of deaf people, delighted

to be able to hear the voice now and then strained to the highest

pitch, and that they strove to encourage the actors to repeat their

efforts. For my part, I am persuaded that they applaud the squeaking

of an actress at the opera, for the same reason as they do the tricks

of a tumbler or posture-master at the fair: it is displeasing and

painful to see them; one is in pain while they last, but we are so

glad to see all pass off without any accident, that we willingly give

them applause.

Think how well this manner of singing is adapted to express all that

Quinault has written the most soft and tender. Imagine the muses,

loves and graces, imagine Venus herself expressing her sentiments in

this delicate manner, and judge of the effects. As to their devils,

let us leave their music to something infernal enough to suit it. As

also that of their magicians, conjurers and witches; all which,

however meets with the greatest applause at the French opera.

To these ravishing sounds, as harmonious as sweet, we may very

deservedly join those of the orchestra. Conceive to yourself a

continual clashing of jarring instruments, attended with the drawling

and perpetual groans of the base, a noise the most doleful and

insupportable that I ever heard in my life, and which I could never

bear a quarter of an hour together without being seized with a violent

head-ach. All this forms a species of psalmody, which has commonly

neither time nor tune. But when, by accident they hit on an air a

little lively, the feet of the audience are immediately in motion, and

the whole house thunders with their clattering. The pit in particular,

with much pains and a great noise, always imitate a certain performer

in the orchestra. [36] Delighted to perceive for a moment that cadence

which they so seldom feel, they strain their ears, voice, hands, feet,

and in short, their whole body to keep that time, which is every

moment ready to escape them. Instead of this the Italians and Germans,

who are more easily affected with the measures of their music, pursue

them without any effort, and have never any occasion to beat time. At

least, Regianino has often told me, that, at the opera in Italy, where

the music is so affecting and lively, you will never see, or hear, in

the orchestra or among the spectators, the least motion of either

hands or feet. But in this country, every thing serves to prove the

dullness of their musical organs; their voices are harsh and

unpleasing, their tones affected and drawling, and their transitions

hard and dissonant: there is no cadence nor melody in their songs;

their martial instruments, the fifes of the infantry, the trumpets of

their cavalry, their horns, their hautboys, the ballad-singers in the

streets, and the fiddlers in their public-houses, all have something

so horribly grating as to shock the most indelicate ear. [37] All

talents are not bestowed on the same men, and the French in general

are of all the people in Europe those of the least aptitude for music.

Lord B---- pretends that the English have as little, but the

difference is, that they know it, and care nothing about the matter,

whereas the French give up a thousand just pretensions, and will

submit to be censured in any other point whatever, sooner than admit

they are not the first musicians in the world. There are even people

at Paris who look upon the cultivation of music as the concern of the

state, perhaps because the improvement of Timotheus’s lyre was so at

Sparta. However this be, the opera here may, for aught I know, be a

good political institution, in that it pleases persons of taste no

better. But to return to my description.

The _ballets_, which are the most brilliant parts of the opera,

considered of themselves, afford a pleasing entertainment, as they are

magnificent and truly theatrical; but, as they enter into the

composition of the piece, it is in that light we must consider them.

You remember the operas of Quinault; you know in what manner the

diversions are there introduced; it is much the same or rather worse

with his successors. In every act, the action of the piece is stopt

short, just at the most interesting period, by an interlude which is

represented before the actors, who are seated on the stage while the

audience in the pit are kept standing. From these interruptions it

frequently happens, that the characters of the piece are quite

forgotten, and always that the spectators are kept looking at actors

that are looking at something else. The fashion of these interludes is

very simple. If the prince is in a good humour, it partakes of the

gaiety of his disposition, and is a dance; if he is displeased, it is

contrived in order to bring him to temper again, and it is also a

dance. I know not whether it be the fashion at court to make a ball

for the entertainment of the king, when he is out of humour; but this

I know, with respect to our opera kings, that one cannot sufficiently

admire their stoical firmness and philosophy, in sitting so tranquil

to see comic dances and attend to songs, while the fate of their

kingdoms, crowns and lives, is sometimes determined behind the scenes.

But they have besides many other occasions for the introduction of

dances; the most solemn actions of human life are here performed in a

dance. The parsons dance, the soldiers dance, the gods dance, the

devils dance, the mourners dance at their funerals, and in short all

their characters dance upon all occasions.

Dancing is thus the fourth of the fine arts employed in the

constitution of the lyric drama: the other three are arts of

imitation; but what is imitated in dancing? nothing.----It is

therefore foreign to the purpose, for what business is there for

minuets or rigadoons in a tragedy? nay, I will venture to say, dancing

would be equally absurd in such compositions, though something was

imitated by it: for of all the dramatic unities the most indispensable

is that of language or expression; and an opera made up partly of

singing, partly of dancing, is even more ridiculous than that in which

they sing half French half Italian.

Not content to introduce dancing as an essential part of the

composition, they even attempt to make it the principal, having

operas, which they call ballets, and which so badly answer their

title, that dancing is no less out of character in them than in all

the rest. Most of these ballets consist of as many different subjects

as acts; which subjects are connected together by certain meta-

physical relations, of which the spectator would never form the least

suspicion or conjecture, if the author did not take care to advise him

of it in the prologue. The seasons, ages, senses, elements, are the

subjects of a dance; but I should be glad to know what propriety there

is in all this, or what ideas can by this means be conveyed to the

mind of the spectator? some of them again are purely allegorical, as

the _carnival_, the _folly_, and are the most intolerable of all,

because with a good deal of wit and finesse, they contain neither

sentiment, description, plot, business, nor any thing that can either

interest the audience, set off the music to advantage, flatter the

passions, or heighten the illusion. In these pretended ballets the

action of the piece is performed in singing, the dancers continually

finding occasion to break in upon the singers, tho’ without meaning or

design.

The result of all this, however, is, that these ballets, being less

interesting than their tragedies, their interruptions are little

remarked. Were the piece itself more affecting, the spectator would be

more offended; but the one defect serves to hide the other, and, in

order to prevent the spectators being tired with the dancing, the

authors artfully contrive it so that they may be more heartily tired

with the piece itself.

This would lead me insensibly to make some queries into the true

composition of the lyric drama, but there would be too prolix to be

compressed in this letter; I have therefore written a little

dissertation on that subject, which you will find inclosed, and may

communicate to Regianino. I shall only add, with respect to the French

opera, that the greatest fault I observed in it is a false taste for

magnificence; whence they attempt to represent the marvellous, which,

being only the object of imagination, is introduced with as much

propriety in an epic poem, as it is ridiculously attempted on the

stage. I should hardly have believed, had not I seen it, that there

could be found artists weak enough to attempt an imitation of the

chariot of the sun, or spectators so childish as to go to see it.

Bruyere could not conceive how so fine a sight as the opera could be

tiresome. For my part, who am no Bruyere, I can conceive it very well,

and will maintain, that to every man who has a true taste for the fine

arts, the French music, their dancing, and the marvellous of their

scenery put together, compose the most tiresome representation in the

world. After all, perhaps the French do not deserve a more perfect

entertainment, especially with respect to the performance not because

they want ability to judge of what is good, but because the bad

pleases them better. For, as they had rather censure than applaud, the

pleasure of criticizing compensates for every defect, and they had

rather laugh after they get home, than be pleased with the piece

during the representation.

Letter LXXXIX. From Eloisa.

Yes, I see it well: Eloisa is still happy in your love, the same fire

that once sparkled in your eyes, glows throughout your last letter,

and kindles all the ardour of mine. Yes, my friend, in vain doth

fortune separate us; let our hearts press forward to each other, let

us preserve by such a communication, their natural warmth against the

chilling coldness of absence and despair; and let every thing that

tends to loosen the ties of our affections, serve only to draw them

closer and bind them fast.

You will smile at my simplicity, when I tell you, that since the

receipt of your letter, I have experienced something of those charming

effects therein mentioned, and that the jest of the talisman, although

purely my own invention, is turned upon myself and become serious. I

am seized a hundred times a day, when alone, with a fit of trembling,

as if you were before me. I imagine you are gazing on my portrait, and

am foolish enough to feel, in conceit, the warmth of those embraces,

the impression of those kisses you bestow on it. Sweet illusion!

charming effects of fancy; the last resources of the unhappy. Oh, if

it be possible, be ye to us a pleasing reality! ye are yet something

to those who are deprived of real happiness.

As to the manner in which I obtained the portrait, it was indeed the

contrivance of love; but, believe me, if mine could work miracles, it

would not have made choice of this. I will let you into the secret. We

had here some time ago a miniature painter, on his return from Italy:

he brought letters from Lord B----, who perhaps had some view in

sending him. Mr. Orbe embraced this opportunity to have a portrait of

my cousin; I was desirous of one also. In return, she and my mother

would each have one of me, of which the painter at my request took

secretly a second copy. Without troubling myself about the original, I

chose of the three that which I thought the most perfect likeness,

with a design to send it to you. I made but little scruple, I own, of

this piece of deceit; for, as to the likeness of the portrait, a

little more or less can make no great difference with my mother and

cousin but the homage you might pay to any other resemblance than

mine, would be a kind of infidelity, by so much the more dangerous, as

my picture might be handsomer than me; and I would not, on any

account, that you should nourish a passion for charms I do not

possess. With respect to the drapery, I could have liked to have been

not so negligently dressed; but I was not heard, and my father himself

insisted on the portrait’s being finished as it is. Except the head-

dress, however, nothing of the habit was taken from mine, the painter

having dressed the picture as he thought proper, and ornamented my

person with the works of his own imagination.

Letter XC. To Eloisa.

I must talk to you still, my dear Eloisa, of your portrait; no longer,

however, in that rapturous strain which the first sight of it

inspired; and with which you yourself were so much affected; but, on

the contrary, with the regret of a man deceived by false hopes, and

whom nothing can recompense for what he has lost. Your portrait, like

yourself, is both graceful and beautiful; it is also a tolerable

likeness, and is painted by the hand of a master; but to be satisfied

with it I ought never to have known you.

The first fault I find in it is, that it resembles you, and yet is not

yourself; that it has your likeness, and is insensible. In vain the

painter thought to copy your features; where is that sweetness of

sentiment that enlivens them, and without which, regular and beautiful

as they are, they are nothing? your heart, Eloisa, no painting can

imitate. This defect, I own, should be attributed to the imperfection

of the art; but it is the fault of the artist not to have been exact

in every thing that depended on himself. He has, for instance, brought

the hair too forward on the temples, which gives the forehead a less

agreeable and delicate air. He has also forgotten two or three little

veins, seen through the transparent skin in winding branches of

purple, resembling those on the Iris we once stood admiring in the

gardens of _Clarens_. The colouring of the cheeks is also too near the

eyes, and is not softened into that glowing blush of the rose toward

the lower part of the face, which distinguishes the lovely original.

One would take it for an artificial _rouge_, plastered on like the

carmine of the French ladies. Nor is this defect a small one, as it

makes the eyes appear less soft, and its looks more bold.

But pray what has he done with those dimples, wherein the little

cupids lurk at the corners of your mouth; and which in my fortunate

days I used to stifle with kisses? he has not given half their beauty

to these charming lips. He has not given the mouth that agreeable

serious turn, which changing in an instant into a smile, ravishes the

heart with inconceivable enchantment, inspires it with an

instantaneous rapture which no words can express. It is true, your

portrait cannot pass from the serious to a smile. This is, alas! the

very thing of which I complain. To paint all your charms you should be

drawn every instant of your life.

But to pass over the injustice the painter has done you, in

overlooking your beauties, he has done you more, in having omitted

your defects. He has left out that almost imperceptible mole under

your right eye, as well as that on the right side of your neck. He has

not----heavens! was the man a statue? he has forgot the little scar

under your lip; he has made your hair and eyebrows of the same colour:

which they are not. Your eye-brows are more upon the chestnut, and

your hair rather of the ash-colour.

_Bionda testa occhi azurri e bruno ciglio._

He has made the lower part of the face exactly oval; not observing the

small hollow between your cheeks and chin, which makes their out-lines

less regular and more agreeable. These are the most palpable defects,

but he has omitted several others, for which I owe him no goodwill:

for I am not only in love with your beauties, but with Eloisa herself,

just as she is. If you would not be obliged for any charm to the

pencil, I would not have you lose by it the smallest defect; my heart

can never be affected by charms that are not your own.

As to the drapery, I shall take the more notice of it, as, whether in

a dishabille or otherwise, I have always seen you dressed with more

taste than you are in the portrait: the head-dress is too large; you

will say it is composed only of flowers. That’s true; but there are

too many. Don’t you remember the ball, at which you were dressed like

a country girl, and your cousin told me I danced like a philosopher?

You had then no other head-dress than your long tresses, turned up and

fastened at top with a golden bodkin, in the manner of the villagers

of Berne. No, the sun glittering in all its radiance displays not half

that lustre, with which you then engaged the eyes and hearts of the

beholders; and there is no one who saw you that day, that can ever

forget you during his whole life. It is thus, my Eloisa, your head

ought to have been dressed. It is your charming hair that should adorn

your face, and not those spreading roses. Tell my cousin, for I

discover her choice and direction, that the flowers with which she has

thus covered and profaned your tresses, are in no better taste than

those she gathers in _Adonis_. One might overlook them did they serve

as an ornament to beauty, but I cannot permit them to hide it.

With respect to the bust, it is singular that a lover should be more

nice in this particular than a father; but, to say the truth, I think

you are too carelessly dressed. The portrait of Eloisa should be

modest as herself. These hidden charms should be sacred to love. You

say the painter drew them from his imagination. I believe it; indeed,

I believe it. Had he caught the least glimpse of thine, his eyes would

have gazed on them for ever, but his hand would not have attempted to

paint them: why was it necessary the rash artist should form them in

imagination? this was not only an offence against decency, but I will

maintain it also to be want of taste. Yes, your countenance is too

modest to support the disorder of your breast; it is plain that one of

these objects ought to hinder the other from being seen: it is the

privilege of love alone to see both together, and when its glowing

hand uncovers the charms that modesty conceals, the sweet confusion of

your eyes shews that you forget not that you expose them.

Such are the criticisms that a continual attention has occasioned me

to make on your portrait: in consequence of which I have formed a

design to alter it, agreeable to my own taste. I have communicated my

intentions to an able master, and from what he has already done, I

hope to see you soon more like yourself. For fear of spoiling the

picture, however, we try our alterations first on a copy, which I have

made him take; and make them in the original only when we are quite

sure of their effect. Although I design but indifferently, my artist

cannot help admiring the subtilty of my observations, but he does not

know that love, who dictates them, is a greater master than he. I seem

to him also sometimes very whimsical: he tells me I am the first lover

that ever chose to hide objects which others think cannot be too much

exposed; and when I answer him, it is in order to have a full view of

you, that I dress you up with so much care, he stares at me, as if he

thought me a fool. Ah! my Eloisa, how much more affecting would be

your portrait, if I could but find out the means to display it in your

mind, as well as your face; to paint at once your modesty and your

charms! what would not the latter gain by such an amendment! at

present those only are seen which the painter imagined, and the

ravished spectator thinks them such as they are. I know not what

secret enchantment is about your person, but every thing that touches

you seems to partake of its virtue: one need only perceive the corner

of your garment to revere the wearer of it. One perceives in your

dress how the veil of the graces affords a covering to the model of

beauty; and the taste of your modest apparel displays to the mind all

those charms it conceals.

Letter XCI. To Eloisa.

Oh, Eloisa! you whom once I could call mine, though now I profane your

virtuous name! my pen drops from my trembling hand, I blot the paper

with my tears, I can hardly trace the first words of a letter, which

ought never to be written; alas! I can neither speak nor be silent.

Come, thou dear and respectable image of my love, come, purify and

strengthen a heart depressed with shame and torn to pieces by remorse.

Support my resolution that fails me, and give my contrition the power

to avow the involuntary crime into which the absence of Eloisa has

plunged me.

Oh! Eloisa, how contemptible will you think me! and yet you cannot

hold me in greater contempt than I do myself. Abject as I may seem in

your eyes, I am yet a hundred times more so in my own; for, in

reflecting on my own demerits, what mortifies me most is to see, to

feel you still in my heart, in a place henceforward so little worthy

of your image and to think that the remembrance of the truest

pleasures of love could not prevent me from falling into a snare that

had no lure, from being led into a crime that had presented no

temptation.

Such is the excess of my confusion, that I am afraid, even in

recurring to your clemency, lest the perusal of the lines in which I

confess my guilt should offend you. Let your purity and chastity

forgive me a recital which should have been spared your modesty, were

it not the means to expiate, in some degree, my infidelity. I know I

am unworthy of your goodness; I am a mean, despicable wretch, but I

will not be an hypocrite or deceive you, for I had rather you should

deprive me of your love, and even life itself, than to impose on

Eloisa for a moment. Lest I should be tempted, therefore, to seek

excuses to palliate my crime, which will only render me the more

criminal, I will confine myself to an exact relation of what has

happened to me; a relation that shall be as sincere as my repentance,

which is all I shall say in my defence.

I had commenced acquaintance with some officers in the guards, and

other young people among my countrymen, in whom I found a good innate

disposition, which I was sorry to see spoiled by the imitation of I

know not what false airs, which nature never designed for them. They

laughed at me in their turn, for preserving in Paris the simplicity of

our ancient Helvetian manners; and, construing my maxims and behaviour

into an indirect censure of theirs, resolved to make me a convert to

their own practices at all hazards. After several attempts which did

not succeed, they made another too well concerted to fail of success.

Yesterday morning they came to me, with a proposal to go with the lady

of a certain colonel they mentioned, who, from the report, they were

pleased to say, of my good sense, had a mind to be acquainted with me.

Fool enough to give into this idle story, I represented to them the

propriety of first making her a visit; but they laughed at my

punctilios, telling me the frankness of a Swiss did not at all agree

with such formality, and that so much ceremony would only serve to

give her a bad opinion of me. At nine o’clock then in the evening, we

waited on the lady. She came out to receive us on the stair-case,

through an excess of civility which I had never seen practised before.

Having entered the apartment, I observed a servant lighting up pieces

of old wax candles over the chimney, and over all an air of

preparation which did not at all please me. The mistress of the house

appeared handsome, tho’ a little past her prime: there were also

several other women with her much about the same age and figure; their

dress, which was rich enough, had more of finery in it than taste; but

I have already observed to you that this is not a sure sign by which

to judge of the condition of the women of this country.----The first

compliments were made as usual, custom teaching one to cut them short,

or to turn them into pleasantry, before they grew tiresome. Something

unusual however appeared as soon as our discourse became general and

serious. I thought the ladies seemed to wear an air of restraint as if

it were not familiar to them, and now, for the first time since I have

been at Paris, I saw women at a loss to support a rational

conversation. To find an easy topic, they brought up at length their

family affairs, and as I knew none of them, I had little share in the

conversation. Never before did I hear so much talk of the colonel, and

the colonel; which not a little surprized me, in a country where it is

the custom to distinguish people rather by their names than by their

profession, and in which almost every man of rank in the army has

besides some other title of distinction.

This affectation of dignity soon gave way to a behaviour more natural

to them: they began to talk low, and, running insensibly into an air

of indecent familiarity, they laughed and whispered every time they

looked at me; while the lady of the house asked me the situation of my

heart, with a certain boldness of manner, not at all adapted to make a

conquest of it. The table was spread, and that freedom which seems to

make no distinction of persons, but generally puts every one without

design in the proper place, fully convinced me what sort of company I

was in. But it was too late to recede: putting my confidence therefore

in my aversion, I determined to apply that evening to observation, and

to employ in the study of that order of women, the only opportunity I

might ever have. Little, however, was the fruit of my attention: I

found them so insensible to their present situation, so void of

apprehensions for the future, and, excepting the tricks of their

profession, so stupid in all respects, that the contempt into which

they sunk in my opinion, soon effaced the pity I first entertained for

them. In speaking even of pleasure itself, I saw they were incapable

of feeling it. They appeared rapacious after every thing that could

gratify their avarice; and, excepting what regarded their interest, I

heard not a word drop from their lips that came from the heart. I was

astonished to think how men, not abandoned like themselves, could

support so disgustful a society. It were, in my opinion, the most

cruel punishment that could be inflicted, to oblige them to keep such

company.

We sat a long while at supper, and the company at length began to grow

noisy. For want of love, the wine went briskly round to inflame the

guests: the discourse was not tender but immodest, and the women

strove by the disorder of their dress to excite those passions which

should have caused that disorder. All this had a very different effect

upon me, and their endeavours to reduce me only heightened my disgust.

Sweet modesty! said I to myself, it is thine to inspire the sublimest

raptures love can bestow! how impotent are female charms when thou

hast left them! if the sex did but know thy power, what pains would

they not take to preserve thee inviolate; if not for the sake of

virtue, at least for their interest! but modesty is not to be assumed.

There is not a more ridiculous artifice in the world than that of the

prude who affects it. What a difference, thought I, is there between

the impudence of these creatures, with their licentious expressions,

and those timid and tender looks, those conversations so full of

modesty, so delicate, so sentimental, which----but I dare not finish

the sentence; I blush at the comparison.----I reproach myself, as if

it were criminal, with the delightful remembrance of her who pursues

me wherever I go. But how shall I now dare to think of her?----alas!

it is impossible to eraze your image from my heart: let me then strive

to conceal it there.

The noise, the discourse I heard, together with the objects that

presented themselves to my view, insensibly inflamed me; my two

neighbours plied me incessantly with wine. I found my head confused,

and, though I drank all the while a good deal of water in my wine, I

now took more water, and at length determined to drink water only. It

was then I perceived the pretended water set before me was white wine,

and that I had drank it from the first. I made no complaints, as they

would only have subjected me to raillery, but gave over drinking

entirely. But it was too late, the mischief was already done, and the

intoxicating effects of what I had already drank soon deprived me of

the little sense that remained. I was surprized, in recovering my

senses, to find myself in a retired closet, locked in the embraces of

one of those creatures I had supped with, and in the same instant had

the mortification to find myself as criminal as I could possibly be.

I have finished this horrible relation. Would to heaven it might never

more offend your eyes, nor torture my memory. O Eloisa! it is from you

I expect my doom; I demand, I deserve, your severity. Whatever be my

punishment it will be less cruel than the remembrance of my crime.

Letter XCII. The Answer.

You may be easy as to the fear of having offended me. Your letter

rather excited my grief than my anger. It is not me, it is your-self

you have offended, by a debauch in which the heart had no share. I am

at this, however, but the more afflicted; for I had much rather you

should affront Eloisa than debase yourself; and the injury you have

done to yourself is that only which I cannot forgive.----To regard

only the fault of which you accuse yourself, you are not so culpable

as you imagine: I can reproach you on that account only with

imprudence. But what I blame you for, is of a greater moment, and

proceeds from a failing, that has taken deeper root than you imagine,

and which it is the part of a friend to lay before you.

Your primary error lies in having at first taken a wrong path, in

which, the farther you advance the more you will go astray; and I

tremble to see that, unless you tread back the steps you have taken,

you are inevitably lost. You have suffered yourself to be led

insensibly into the very snares I dreaded. The more gross and palpable

allurements of vice I knew could not seduce you, but the bad company

you keep, hath begun by deluding your reason, to corrupt your morals,

and hath already made the first essay of its maxims on your behaviour.

You have told me nothing, it is true, in particular, of the

acquaintance you have made in Paris; but it is easy to judge of your

companions by your letters, and of those who point out the objects, by

your manner of describing them. I have not concealed from you how

little satisfied I have been with your remarks; you have nevertheless

continued them in the same stile, which has only increased my

displeasure. In fact, one would rather take your observations for the

sarcasms of some petit-maitre, than for the animadversions of a

philosopher; and it is hardly possible to believe them written by the

same hand that wrote your former letters. Do you think to study

mankind by the confined behaviour of a few societies of finical prudes

and other idlers? do none of your remarks penetrate beyond the

exterior and changeable varnish which ought hardly to have engaged

your attention? was it worthwhile to collect with so much care those

peculiarities of manners and decorum, which ten years hence will no

longer exist; while the unalterable springs of the human heart, the

constant and secret workings of the passions have escaped your

researches? let us turn to your letter concerning women: in what have

you instructed me to know them? you have given indeed a description of

their dress, which all the world might be as well acquainted with; and

have made some malicious observations on the address and behaviour of

some, as also of the irregularities of a few others, which you have

unjustly attributed to them all, as if no person of virtuous

sentiments was to be found in Paris, and every woman flaunted about

there in her chariot, and sat in the front boxes. Have you told me any

thing that can throw real light upon their true character, taste or

maxims? and is it not strange, that in describing the women of a

country, a man of sense should omit what regards their domestic

concerns and education of their children? [38] the only circumstance

in that letter characteristic of its author, is the apparent

satisfaction with which you commend the goodness of their natural

disposition, which, I must confess, doth honour to yours. And yet,

what have you done more in that than barely justice to the sex in

general? for in what country are not gentleness of manners and

compassion for the distressed, the amiable qualities of the women?

What a difference had there been in the picture, if you had described

what you had seen, rather than what you had heard; or, at least, if

you had only consulted people of sense and solidity on the occasion?

was it for you, who have taken so much pains to cultivate your genius,

to throw away your time deliberately in the company of a parcel of

inconsiderate young fellows, who take pleasure in the society of

persons of virtue and understanding, not to imitate, but only to

seduce and corrupt them. You lay a stress on the equality of age, with

which you should have nothing to do, and forgot that of sense and

knowledge, which is more peculiarly essential. In spite of your

violent passions, you are certainly the most pliable man in the world;

and, notwithstanding the ripeness of your judgment, permit yourself to

be conducted so implicitly by those you converse with, that you cannot

keep company with young people of your own age without condescending

to become a mere infant in their hands. Thus you mistake in your

choice of proper companions, and demean yourself in not fixing upon

such as have more understanding than yourself.

I do not reproach you with having been inadvertently taken into a

dishonest house; but with having been conducted thither by a party of

young officers, who ought never to have known you; or at least, whom

you should never have permitted to direct your amusements. With

respect to your project of making them converts to your own

principles, I discover in it more zeal than prudence; if you are of

too serious a turn to be their companion, you are too young to be

their tutor, and you ought not to think of reforming others till there

is nothing left to reform in yourself.

The next fault, which is of more moment and less pardonable, is to

have passed voluntarily the evening in a place so unworthy of you, and

not to have left the house the moment you knew what it was. Your

excuses on this head are mean and pitiful. You say _it was too late to

recede_, as if any decorum was necessary to be observed in such a

place, or as if decorum ought ever to take place of virtue, and that

it were ever too late to abstain from doing evil. As to the security

you found in your aversion to the manners of such a company, I will

say nothing of it; the event has shewn you how well it was founded.

Speak more freely to one who so well knows how to read your heart;

say, you were ashamed to leave your companions. You were afraid they

would laugh at you, a momentary hiss struck you with fear, and you had

rather expose yourself to the bitterness of remorse than the tartness

of raillery. Do you know what a maxim you followed on this occasion?

that which first vitiates every innocent mind, drowns the voice of

conscience in public clamour, and represses the resolution of doing

well by the fear of censure. Such a mind may overcome temptations, and

yet yield to the force of bad examples, may blush at being really

modest and become impudent through bashfulness, a false bashfulness

that is more destructive to a virtuous mind than bad inclinations.

Look well then to the security of yours; for, whatever you may

pretend, the fear of ridicule which you affect to despise, prevails

over you, in spite of yourself. You would sooner face a hundred

dangers than one raillery, and never was seen so much timidity united

to so intrepid a mind.

Not to make a parade of precepts which you know better than I, I shall

content myself with proposing a method more easy and sure perhaps

than all the arguments of philosophy. This is on such occasions to

make in thought a slight transposition of circumstances, to anticipate

a few minutes of time. If, at that unfortunate supper, you had but

fortified yourself against a moment’s raillery, by the idea of the

state of mind you should be in as soon as you got into the street; had

you represented to yourself that inward contentment you should feel at

having escaped the snares laid for you, the consciousness of having

avoided the danger, the pleasure it would give you to write me an

account of it, that which I should myself receive in reading it: had

you, I say, called these circumstances to mind, is it to be supposed

they would not have over-balanced the mortification of being laughed

at for a moment; a mortification you would never have dreaded, could

you but have foreseen the consequences? but what is this

mortification, which gives consequence to the raillery of people for

whom one has no esteem? this reflection would infallibly have saved

you, in return for a moment’s imaginary disgrace, much real and more

durable shame, remorse and danger; it would have saved (for why should

I dissemble?) your friend, your Eloisa, many tears.

You determined, you tell me, to apply that evening to your

observations. What an employment! what observations! I blush for your

excuses. Will you not also, when an opportunity offers, have the same

curiosity to make observations on robbers in their dens? and to see

the methods they take to seize their prey, and strip the unhappy

passengers that fall into their hands? are you ignorant that there

are objects too detestable for a man of probity to look on, and that

the indignation of virtue cannot support the sight of vice?

The philosopher remarks indeed the public licentiousness which he

cannot prevent; he sees it, and his countenance betrays the concern it

gives him: but as to that of individuals, he either opposes it or

turns away his eyes from the sight, lest he should give it a sanction

by his presence. May I not ask besides what necessity there was to be

eye-witness of such scenes, in order to judge of what passed, or the

conversation that was held there? for my part, I can judge more easily

of the whole, from the intention and design of such a society, than

from the little you tell me of it, and the idea of those pleasures

that are to be found there, gives me a sufficient insight into the

characters of such as go to seek them.

I know not if your commodious scheme of philosophy has already adopted

the maxims, which, it is said, are established in large towns, for the

toleration of such places: but I hope, at least, you are not one of

those who debase themselves so much as to put them in practice, under

the pretext of I know not what chimerical necessity, that is known

only to men of debauched lives; as if the two sexes were in this

respect of a different constitution; and, that during absence or

celibacy, a virtuous man is under a necessity of indulging himself in

liberties which are denied to a modest woman. But if this error does

not lead you to prostitutes, I am afraid it will continue to lead your

imagination astray. Alas! if you are determined to be despicable, be

so at least without pretext; and add not the vice of lying to that of

drunkenness. All those pretended necessities have no foundation in

nature, but in the voluntary depravation of the senses. Even the fond

illusions of love are refined by a chaste mind, and pollute it only

when the heart is first depraved. On the contrary, chastity is its own

support; the desires constantly repressed accustom themselves to

remain at rest, and temptations are only multiplied by the habit of

yielding to them. Friendship has made me twice overcome the reluctance

I had to write on such a subject, and this shall be the last time: for

on what plea can I hope to obtain that influence over you, which you

have refused to virtue, to love, and to reason?

But I return to that important point, with which I began this letter;

at one and twenty years of age you sent me, from the Valais, grave and

judicious descriptions of men and things: at twenty-five you write me,

from Paris, a pack of trifling letters, wherein good sense is

sacrificed to a certain quaintness and pleasantry, very incompatible

with your character. I know not how you have managed; but since you

have resided among people of refined talents, yours appear to be

diminished: you profited among clowns, and have lost by the wits. This

is not, however, the fault of the place you are in, but of the

acquaintance you have made: for nothing requires greater judgment than

to make a proper choice in a mixture of the excellent and execrable.

If you would study the world, keep company with men of sense, who have

known it by long experience and observations made at leisure; not with

giddy-headed boys, who see only the superficies of things, and laugh

at what they themselves make ridiculous. Paris is full of sensible

men, accustomed to reflection, and to whom every day presents a

fertile field for observation. You will never make me believe that

such grave and studious persons run about, as you do, from house to

house, and from club to club, to divert the women and young fellows,

and turn all philosophy into chit chat. They have too much dignity

thus to debase their characters, prostitute their talents, and give a

sanction by their example, to modes which they ought to correct. But,

if even most of them should, there are certainly many who do not, and

it is those you ought to have chosen for companions.

Is it not extraordinary, that you should fall into the very same error

in your behaviour, which you blame in the writings of the comic poets:

from which you say one would imagine Paris was peopled only by persons

of distinction. These are your constant theme, while those of your own

rank escape your notice; as if the ridiculous prejudices of nobility

had not cost you sufficiently dear, to make you hate them for ever; or

that you thought you degraded yourself in keeping company with honest

citizens and tradesmen, the most respectable order of men, perhaps in

the whole country. It is in vain you endeavour to excuse yourself, in

that yours are the acquaintance of Lord B----: with the assistance of

these, you might easily have made others of an inferior rank. So many

people are desirous to rise, that it is always easy to descend; and by

your own confession the only way, to come at the true manners of a

nation is to study the private life of the most numerous order among

them; for to confine your observations to those who only personate

assumed characters, is only to observe the actions of a company of

comedians.

I would have your curiosity exerted still farther. How comes it that,

in so opulent a city, the poor people are so miserable; while such

extreme distress is hardly ever experienced among us, where, on the

other hand, we have no examples of immense wealth? This question is,

in my opinion, well worth your asking; but it is not the people you

converse with that are to resolve it. It is in the splendid apartments

of the rich that the novice goes to learn the manners of the world;

but the man of sense and experience betakes himself to the cottages of

the poor. These are the places for the detection of those iniquitous

practices, that in polite circles are varnished over and hid beneath a

specious shew of words. It is here that the rich and powerful, by

coming to the knowledge of the basest arts of oppression, feel for the

unhappy what in public they only affect. If I may believe our old

officers, you will learn many things in the garrets of a fifth floor,

which are buried in profound silence at the _hotels_, in the suburbs

of St. Germain: you will find that many fine talkers would be struck

dumb, if all those they have made unhappy were present to contradict

their boasted pretensions to humanity.

I know the sight of misery that excites only fruitless pity is

disagreeable; and that even the rich turn away their eyes from the

unhappy objects to whom they refuse relief: but money is not the only

thing the unfortunate stand in need of; and they are but indolent in

well-doing who can exert themselves only with their purse in their

hands. Consolation, advice, concern, friends, protection, there are

all so many resources which compassion points out to those who are not

rich, for relief of the indigent. The oppressed often stand in need

only of a tongue, to make known their complaints. They often want no

more than a word they cannot speak, a reason they are ashamed to give,

entrance at the door of a great man which they cannot obtain. The

intrepid countenance of disinterested virtue may remove infinite

obstacles, and the eloquence of a man of probity make even a tyrant

tremble in the midst of his guards.

If you would then act as a man, learn to descend again. Humanity, like

a pure salutary stream, flows always downwards to its level;

fertilising the humble vales, while it leaves dry those barren rocks,

whose threatening heads cast a frightful shade, or tumbling headlong

down involve the plain in ruins.

Thus, my friend, may you make use of the past, by drawing thence

instructions for your future conduct; and learn how goodness of heart

may be of advantage to the understanding: whoever lives among people

in office, cannot be too cautious of the corruptible maxims they

inculcate; and it is only the constant exercise of their benevolence

that can secure the best hearts from the contagion of ambition. Try

this new kind of study: it is more worthy of you, than those you have

hitherto adopted; and; believe me, as the genius is impoverished in

proportion as the mind is corrupted, you will soon find, on the

contrary, how much the practice of virtue elevates and improves it:

you will experience how much the interest you take in the misfortunes

of others will assist you in tracing their source, and will thereby

learn to escape the vices that produce them.

I ought to take all the freedom with you that friendship authorises in

the critical situation in which you at present appear: lest a second

step towards debauchery should plunge you beyond recovery, and that,

before you have time to recollect yourself. I cannot conceal from you,

my friend, how much your ready and sincere confession has affected me;

as I am sensible how much shame and confusion it must have cost you,

and from thence how heavy this piece of ill-conduct must sit upon your

heart; an involuntary crime, however, is easily forgiven and forgot.

But, for the future, remember well that maxim, from which I shall

never recede: he who is a second time deceived on these occasions,

cannot be said to have been deceived the first.

Adieu, my friend, be careful, I conjure you, of your health; and be

assured I shall not retain the least remembrance of a fault I have

once forgiven.

P. S. I have seen, in the hands of Mr. Orbe, the copies of several of

your letters to Lord B----, which oblige me to retract part of the

censure I have passed on the matter and manner of your observations.

These letters, I must confess, treat of important subjects, and appear

to be full of serious and judicious reflections. But hence it is

evident, that you either treat my cousin and me disdainfully, or that

you set little value on our esteem, in sending us such trivial

relations as might justly forfeit it, while you transmit so much

better to your friend. It is, in my opinion, doing little honour to

your instructions to think your scholars unworthy to admire your

talents: for you ought to affect at least, were it only through

vanity, to think us capable of it.

I own political matters are not proper subjects for women: and my

uncle has tired us with them so heartily, that I can easily conceive

you were afraid of doing so too. To speak freely, also, these are not

the topics I prefer: their utility is too foreign to affect me, and

their arguments too subtle to make any lasting impression. Bound to

respect the government, under which it is my fate to have been born, I

give myself no trouble to enquire whether there are any better. To

what end should I be instructed in the knowledge of governments, who

have so little power to establish them? and why should I afflict

myself with the consideration of evils too great for me to remedy,

when I am surrounded with others that are in my power to redress? but,

for my love to you, the interest I should not take in the subject, I

should take in the writer. I collect, with a pleasing admiration, all

the fruits of your genius; and, proud of merit so deserving of my

heart, I beseech of love only so much wit as to make me relish yours.

Refuse me not then the pleasure of knowing and admiring your works of

merit. Will you mortify me so much as to give me reason to think that,

if heaven should ever unite us, you will not judge your companion

worthy to know and adopt your sentiments?

Letter XCIII. From Eloisa.

We are undone! all is discovered! your letters are gone! they were

there last night, and could have been taken away but to day. ’Tis my

mother: it can be no body else. If my father should see them, my life

is in danger. But why should he not see them, if I must renounce----

Heavens! my mother sends for me, whither shall I fly? how shall I

support her presence? O that I could hide myself in the centre of the

earth! I tremble every limb, and am unable to move one step----the

shame, the mortification, the killing reproaches----I have deserved

it, I will support it all. But oh! the grief, the tears of a weeping

mother----O, my heart, how piercing!----she waits for me; I can stay

no longer----she will know----I must tell her all----Regianino

will be dismissed. Write no more till you hear further----who knows

if ever----yet I might----what? deceive her?----deceive my

mother!----alas! if our safety lies in supporting a falsehood,

farewell, we are indeed undone!

Letter XCIV. From Mrs. Orbe.

O how you afflict all those who love you! what tears have already been

shed on your account, in an unfortunate family, whose tranquillity has

been disturbed by you alone! Fear to add to these tears by covering us

with mourning: tremble lest the death of an afflicted parent should be

the last effect of the poison you have poured into the heart of her

child, and that your extravagant passion will at length fill you with

eternal remorse. My friendship made me support your folly, while it

was capable of being nourished by the shadow of hope; but how can it

allow a vain constancy condemned by honour and reason, and which

producing nothing but pain and misfortune can only deserve the name of

obstinacy?

You know in what manner the secret of your passion, so long concealed

from the suspicions of my aunt, has been discovered by your letters.

How sensibly must such a stroke be felt by a tender and virtuous

mother, less irritated against you, than against herself! she blames

her blind negligence, she deplores her fatal delusion, her deepest

affliction arises from her having had too high an esteem for her

daughter, and her grief has filled Eloisa with a hundred times more

sorrow than all her reproaches.

My poor cousin’s distress is not to be conceived. No idea can be

formed of it without seeing her. Her heart seems stifled with grief,

and the violence of the sensations by which it is oppressed, gives her

an air of stupidity more terrifying than the most piercing cries. She

continues night and day by her mother’s bed, with a mournful look, her

eyes fixed on the floor, and profoundly silent; yet serving her with

greater attention and vivacity than ever; then instantly relapsing

into a state of dejection, she appears to be no longer the same

person. It is very evident, that the mother’s illness supports the

spirits of her daughter; and if an ardent desire to serve her did not

give her strength, the extinguished lustre of her eyes, her paleness,

her extreme grief, make me apprehensive she would stand in great need

of the assistance she bestows. My aunt likewise perceives it, and I

see from the earnestness with which she recommends Eloisa’s health to

my care, how her poor heart is agitated, and how much reason we have

to hate you for disturbing such a pleasing union.

This anxiety is still increased by the care of hiding from a

passionate father, a dangerous secret, which the mother, who trembles

for the life of her daughter, would conceal. She has resolved to

observe in his presence their former familiarity; but if maternal

tenderness with pleasure takes advantage of this pretext, a daughter

filled with confusion, dares not yield her heart to caresses which she

believes feigned, and which are the more painful, in proportion as

they would be engaging, could she presume to think them real. At the

fond caresses of her father she looks towards her mother with an air

so tender, and so humble, that she seems to say: Ah! why am I not

still worthy of your tenderness!

In my frequent conversations with the baroness D’Etange I could easily

find by the mildness of her reprimands, and by the tone in which she

spoke of you, that Eloisa has endeavoured, to the utmost of her power,

to calm her too just indignation, and that she has spared no pains to

justify us both at her own expense. Even your letters, besides a

violent passion, contain a kind of excuse which has not escaped her:

she reproaches you less for abusing her confidence, than she does her

own weakness for putting it in your power. She has such an esteem for

you, as to believe that no other man in your place would have made a

better resistance; and that your faults even spring from virtue. She

now, she says, perceives the vanity of that boasted probity which does

not secure a person in love, who is in other respect a worthy man,

from the guilt of corrupting a virtuous girl, and without scruple

dishonouring a whole family, to indulge a momentary madness. But to

what purpose do we recur to what is past? our present business is to

conceal, under an everlasting veil, this odious mystery; to efface, if

possible, the least vestige of it, and to second the goodness of

heaven, which has left no visible proof of your folly. The secret is

confined to six safe persons. The repose of all you have loved, the

life of a mother reduced to despair, the honour of a respectable

family, your own virtue, all these still depend on you, all these

point out your duty: you may repair the evil you have done, you may

render yourself worthy of Eloisa, and justify her fault by renouncing

your pretensions. If I am not deceived in my opinion of your heart,

nothing but the greatness of such a sacrifice can be equal to the love

that renders it necessary. Relying on the sublimity of your

sentiments, I have promised, in your name, every thing you ought to

perform: dare to undeceive me, if I have presumed too much on your

merit, or be now what you ought to be. It is necessary to sacrifice

either your mistress or your love, and to shew yourself the most

abject, or the most virtuous of mankind.

This unfortunate mother resolved to write to you: she even began the

painful task. Oh! what stabs would her bitter complaints have given

you! how would her affecting reproaches have wounded your heart! and

her humble intreaties have filled you with shame! I have torn in

pieces this distressful letter, which you would never have been able

to support. I could not endure the preposterous sight of a mother

humbling herself before the seducer of her child: you are worthy, at

least, that we should not use means that would rend a heart of

adamant, and drive to the extremes of despair, a man of uncommon

sensibility.

Were this the first effort love had demanded from you, I might doubt

of the success, and hesitate as to the degree of esteem you deserve:

but the sacrifice you have made to the honour of Eloisa, by quitting

this country, is a pledge of that you are going to make to her repose,

by putting a stop to a useless correspondence. The first efforts of

virtue are always the most painful; and you will lose the advantage of

that which has cost you so dear, by obstinately maintaining a vain

correspondence, attended with such danger to her you love, without the

least advantage to either of you; and which can only serve to prolong

the torments of both. No longer doubt it; it is become absolutely

necessary that this Eloisa, who was so dear to you, should be

forgotten by the man she loved so well: in vain you dissemble your

misfortunes, she was lost to you at the moment you left her. Or rather

heaven disposed of her, before she gave herself to you; for her father

had promised her to another before his return, and you too well know

that the promise of that inexorable man is irrevocable. In what

manner soever you regulate your conduct your desires are opposed by an

inevitable fate, and you can never possess her. The only choice you

have left, is either to plunge her into an abyss of misfortunes and

reproach, or to honour what you have adored, and restore to her,

instead of the happiness she has lost, at least, the prudence, peace,

and safety, of which she has been deprived by your fatal connections.

How would you be afflicted, how would you be stung with remorse, could

you contemplate the real state of this unhappy friend, and the

abasement to which she is reduced by remorse and shame? how is her

lustre tarnished, how languid all her gracefulness? how are all her

noble and engaging sentiments unhappily absorbed in this one passion?

her friendship itself is cooled; scarcely does she partake of the

pleasure I feel when we meet, her sick heart is only sensible of love

and grief. Alas! what is become of that fondness and sensibility, of

that delicacy of taste, of that tender interest in the pains and

pleasures of others? she is still, I confess mild, generous,

compassionate; the amiable habit of doing well cannot be effaced, but

’tis only a blind habit, a taste without reflection. Her actions are

the same, but they are not performed with the same zeal; those sublime

sentiments are weakened, that divine flame is extinguished, this angel

is now no more than woman. Oh, what a noble mind have you seduced from

the path of virtue!

Letter XCV. To The Baroness D’Etange.

Overwhelmed with endless sorrow, I throw myself at your feet, madam,

not to shew a repentance that is out of my power; but to expiate an

involuntary crime, by renouncing all that could render life a

blessing. As no human passion ever equalled that inspired by your

celestial daughter, never was there a sacrifice equal to that I am

going to make to the most respectable of mothers; but Eloisa has too

well taught me how to sacrifice happiness to duty; she has too

courageously set me the example, for me, at least, in one instance,

not to imitate her. Were my blood capable of removing your distress, I

would shed it in silence, and complain of being able to give you only

so feeble a proof of my affection; but to break the most sweet, the

most pure, the most sacred bond that ever united two hearts, is alas!

an effort which the whole universe could not oblige me to make, and

which you alone could obtain.

Yes, I promise to live far from her, as long as you require it; I will

abstain from seeing and writing to her; this I swear by your precious

life, so necessary to the preservation of hers. I submit, not without

horror, but without murmuring, to whatever you condescend to enjoin

her and me. I will even add, that her happiness is capable of

alleviating my misery, and that I shall die contented, if you give her

a husband worthy of her. Oh, let him be found! and let him dare to

tell me that his passion for Elois is greater than mine! In vain, may

he have every thing that I want; if he has not my heart, he has

nothing for Eloisa; but I have only this honest and tender heart.

Alas! I have nothing more. Love, which levels all, exalts not the

person, it elevates only the sentiments. Oh, had I dared to listen to

mine for you, how often, in speaking to you, madam, would my lips have

pronounced the tender name of mother?

Deign to confide in oaths, which shall not be vain, and in a man who

is not a deceiver. If I ever dishonour your esteem, I must first

dishonour myself. My unexperienced heart knew not the danger, till it

was too late to fly: I had not then learned of your daughter the cruel

art she has since taught me, of conquering love with its own weapons.

Banish your fears, I conjure you. Is there a person in the world to

whom her repose, her felicity, her honour, is dearer than it is to me?

no, my word and my heart are securities for the engagement into which

I now enter, both in my own name, and in that of my lovely friend.

Assure yourself that no indiscreet word shall ever pass my lips, and

that I will breathe my last sigh without divulging the cause of my

death. Calm therefore that affliction which consumes you, and which

adds infinitely to my sufferings; dry up the tears that pierce my very

soul; try to recover your health; restore to the most affectionate

daughter the world ever produced, the happiness she has renounced for

you; be happy; live, that she may value life; for regardless of our

misfortunes, to be the mother of Eloisa, is still sufficient cause for

happiness.

Letter XCVI. To Mrs. Orbe,

_With the preceding Letter inclosed._

There, cruel friend! is my answer. When you read it, if you know my

heart, you will burst into tears, unless yours has lost its

sensibility; but no longer overwhelm me with that merciless esteem,

which I so dearly purchase, and which serves but to increase my

torture.

Has your barbarous hand then dared to break the gentle union formed

under your eye, even almost from infancy, and which your friendship

seemed to share with so much pleasure? I am now as wretched as you

would have me, and as there is a possibility of being. Do you conceive

all the evil you have done? are you sensible that you have torn me

from my soul? that what I have lost is beyond redemption, and that it

is better to die an hundred times, than not to live for each other?

why do you urge the happiness of Eloisa? can she be happy without

contentment? why do you mention the danger of her mother? ah! what is

the life of a mother, of mine, of yours, of hers itself, what is the

existence of the whole world, to the delightful sensation by which we

were united? O senseless and savage virtue! I obey thy unmeaning

voice, I abhor thee, while I sacrifice all to thy dictates. What avail

thy vain consolations against the distressful agonies of the soul? go,

thou sullen idol of the unhappy, thou only knowest to augment their

misery, by depriving them of the resources which fortune offers: yet I

obey; yes, cruel friend, I obey; I will become, if possible, as

insensible and savage as yourself. I will forget every thing upon

earth that was dear to me. I will no longer hear or pronounce Eloisa’s

name, or yours. I will no more recall their insupportable remembrance.

An inflexible vexation and rage shall preserve me from such

misfortunes. A steady obstinacy shall supply the place of courage: I

have paid too dearly for my sensibility; it were better to renounce

humanity itself.

Letter XCVII. From Mrs. Orbe.

Your letter is indeed extremely pathetic, but there is so much love

and virtue in your conduct, that it effaces the bitterness of your

complaints: you are so generous, that I have not the courage to

quarrel with you; for whatever extravagancies we may commit, if we are

still capable of sacrificing all that is dear to us, we deserve praise

rather than reproach; therefore, notwithstanding your abuse, you never

was so dear to me, as since you have made me so fully sensible of your

worth.

Return thanks to that virtue you believe you hate, and which does more

for you than even your love. There is not one of us, not even my aunt,

whom you have not gained by a sacrifice, the value of which she well

knows. She could not read your letter without melting into tears: she

had even the weakness to shew it to her daughter; but poor Eloisa’s

endeavours while she read it, to stifle her sighs and tears, quite

overcame her, and she fainted away.

This tender mother, whom your letters had already greatly affected,

begins to perceive from every circumstance, that your hearts are of a

superior mould, and that they are distinguished by a natural sympathy,

which neither time nor human efforts will ever be able to efface. She

who stands in such need of consolation would herself freely console

her daughter, if prudence did not restrain her; and I see her too

ready to become her confident, to fear that she can be angry with me.

Yesterday I heard her say, even before Eloisa, perhaps a little

indiscreetly, “ah! if it only depended on me!”----and tho’ she said no

more, I perceived by a kiss which Eloisa impressed on her hand, that

she too well understood her meaning. I am even certain that she was

several times inclined to speak to her inflexible husband, but whether

the danger of exposing her daughter to the fury of an enraged father,

or whether it was fear for herself, her timidity has hitherto kept her

silent: and her illness increases so fast, that I am afraid she will

never be able to execute her half-formed resolution.