When we returned one, I sighed for an hour’s solitude and

recollection. I obtained it, not without difficulty; and however eager

I was to make the best advantage of it, I nevertheless entered into

self-examination with reluctance, being afraid lest I should discover

that I had only been affected by some transitory impressions, and that

at the bottom I should find myself as unworthy a wife, as I had been

an indiscreet girl. The method of making the trial was sure, but

dangerous; I began it by turning my thoughts on you. My heart bore

witness that no tender recollection had profaned the solemn engagement

I had lately made. I could not conceive, without astonishment, how

your image could have forborne its obstinate intrusion, and have left

me so long at rest, amidst so many occasions which might have recalled

you to my mind; I should have mistrusted my insensibility and

forgetfulness, as treacherous dependencies, which were too unnatural

to be lasting. I found however that I was in no danger of delusion: I

was sensible that I still loved you as much, if not more than ever;

but I felt my affection for you without a blush. I found that I could

venture to think of you, without forgetting that I was the wife of

another. When a tacit self-confession reported how dear you was to me,

my heart was affected, but my conscience and my senses were composed;

and from that moment I perceived that my mind was changed in reality.

What a torrent of pure joy then rushed into my soul! what tranquil

sensations, so long effaced, then began to revive a heart which

ignominy had stained, and to diffuse an unusual serenity through my

whole frame! I felt as if I had been new born; and I fancied that I

was entering into another life. O gentle and balmy virtue! I am

regenerated for thee; thou alone canst make life dear to me; to thee

alone I consecrate my being. Oh I have too fatally experienced the

loss of thee, ever to abandon thee a second time.

In the rapture of so great, so sudden, so unexpected a change I

ventured to reflect on the state I was in the preceding day: I

trembled on thinking what a state of unworthy debasement I had been

reduced by forgetting what I owed to myself; and I shuddered at all

the dangers I had since my first step of deviation. What a happy

revolution of mind enabled me to discover the horror of the crime which

threw temptation before me; and how did the love of discretion revive

within me! by what uncommon accident, said I, could I hope to be more

faithful to love, than to honour, which I held in such high esteem?

what good fortune would prevent your inconstancy or my own, from

delivering me a prey to new attachments? how could I oppose to another

lover, that resistance which the first had conquered, and that shame

which had been accustomed to yield to inclination? should I pay more

regard to the rights of extinguished love, than I did to the claim of

virtue, while it maintained its full empire in my soul? what security

could I have to love no other but you, except that inward assistance

which deceives all lovers, who swear eternal constancy, and

inconsiderately perjure themselves upon every change of their

affections? thus one deviation from virtue would have led to another;

and vice, grown habitual, would no longer have appeared horrible in my

sight. Fallen from honour to infamy, without any hold to stop me; from

a seduced virgin I should have become an abandoned woman, the scandal

of my sex and the torment of my family. What has saved me from so

natural a consequence of my first transgression? what checked me after

my first guilty step? what has preserved my reputation, and the esteem

of my beloved friends? what has placed me under the protection of a

virtuous and discreet husband, whose character is amiable, whose

person is agreeable, and who is full of that respect and affection for

me, which I have so little deserved? what, in short, enables me to

aspire after the character of a virtuous wife, and gives me courage to

render myself worthy of that title? I see it, I feel it; it is the

friendly hand which has conducted me thro’ the paths of darkness, that

now removes the veil of error from my eyes; and, in my own despite,

restores me to myself. The gentle voice which incessantly murmured

within me, now raised its tone, and thundered in my ears, at the very

moment that I was near being lost for ever. The author of all truth

would not allow me to quit his presence with the conscious guilt of

detestable perjury; and preventing my crime by my remorse, he has

shewn me the frightful abyss into which I was ready to fall. Eternal

Providence! who dost make the insect crawl, and the heavens revolve,

thou art watchful over the least of all thy works! thou hast recalled

me to that virtue, which I was born to revere! deign therefore to

receive, from a heart purified by thy goodness, that homage which thou

alone hast rendered worthy thy acceptance.

That instant, being impressed with a lively sense of the danger I had

escaped, and of the state of honour and security in which I was

happily re-established, I prostrated myself on the ground, and lifting

my suppliant hands to heaven, I invoked that Being enthroned on high,

whole pleasure supports or destroys, by means of our own strength,

that free-will he has bestowed. I eagerly, said I, embrace the

professed good, of which Thou alone art the author. I will love the

husband to whom thou hast attached me. I will be faithful, because it

is the chief duty which unites private families and society in

general. I will be chaste, because it is the parent virtue which

nourishes all the rest. I will adhere to everything relative to the

order of nature which thou hast established, and to the dictates of

reason which I derive from thee. I recommend my heart to thy

protection, and my desires to thy guidance. Render all my actions

conformable to my steadfast will, which is ever thine, and never more

permit momentary error to triumph over the settled choice of my life.

Having finished this short prayer, the first I ever made with true

devotion, I found myself confirmed in virtuous resolutions; it seemed

so easy and so agreeable to follow these dictates, that I clearly

perceived where I must hereafter resort for that power to resist my

inclinations, which I could not derive from myself. From this new

discovery, I acquired fresh confidence, and lamented that fatal

blindness, which had so long disguised it from me. I had never been

devoid of religion, but perhaps I had better have been wholly so, than

to have professed one which was external and mechanical; and which

satisfied the conscience, without affecting the heart; one which was

confined to set forms; and taught me to believe in God at stated

hours, without thinking of him the remainder of my time. Scrupulously

attendant on public worship, I nevertheless drew no advantage from it

to assist me in the practice of my duty. Knowing that I was of good

family, I indulged my inclinations, I was fond of speculation, and put

my trust in reason. Not being able to reconcile the Spirit of the

Gospel with the manners of the world, nor faith with works, I steered

a middle course which satisfied the vanity of my wisdom; I had one set

of maxims for speculation, and another for practice; I forgot in one

place, the opinions I formed in another; I was devotee at church, and

a philosopher at home: Alas! was nothing any where; my prayers were

but words, my reasoning mere sophistry, and the only light I followed

was the false glimmering of an _ignis fatuus_ which guided me to

destruction.

I cannot describe to you how much this inward principle, which had

escaped me till now, made me despise those which had so shamefully

misled me. Tell me, I intreat you, what was the strongest reason in

their support, and on what foundation did they rest? A favourable

instinct directs me to good, some impetuous passion rises in

opposition: it takes root in the same instant, and what must I do to

destroy it? From a contemplation on the order of nature, I discover

the beauty of virtue; and from its general utility, I derive its

excellence. But what do these arguments avail, when they stand in

competition to my private interest; and which in the end is of most

consequence to me, to procure my own happiness at the expense of

others, or to promote the felicity of others at the expense of my own

happiness? if the dread of shame or punishment deter me from

committing evil for the sake of my own private good, I have nothing

more to do than to sin in secret; virtue then cannot upbraid me, and

if I am detected, I shall be punished, as at Sparta, not on account of

my crime, but because I had not ingenuity to conceal it. In short,

admitting the character and the love of virtue to be imprinted in my

heart by nature, it will serve me as a rule of conduct till its

impressions are dead; but how shall I be sure always to preserve this

inward effigies in its original purity, which has no model, among

sublunary beings, to which it can be referred? Is it not evident, that

irregular afflictions corrupt the judgement as well as the will, and

that conscience changes, and in every age, in every people, in every

individual, accommodates itself to inconstancy of opinion and

diversity of prejudice.

Adore the supreme Being, my worthy and prudent friend; with one puff

of breath you will be able to dissipate those chimeras of reason,

which have a visionary appearance, and which fly like so many others,

before immutable truth. Nothing exists but through him, who is self-

existent. It is he who directs the tendency of justice, fixes the

basis of virtue, and gives a recompense to a short life spent

according to his will; it is he who proclaims aloud to the guilty that

their secret crimes are detected, and gives assurance to the righteous

in obscurity, that their virtues are not without a witness; it is he,

it is his unalterable substance, that is the true model of those

perfections, of which we all bear the image within us. It is in vain

that our passions disfigure it; its traces which are allied to the

infinite Being, ever present themselves to our reason, and serve to

re-establish what error and imposture have perverted. These

distinctions seem to me extremely natural; common sense is sufficient

to point them out. Every thing which we cannot separate from the idea

of divine essence, is God; all the rest is the work of men. It is by

the contemplation of this divine model, that the soul becomes refined

and exalted, that it learns to despise low desires, and to triumph

over base inclinations. A heart impressed with these sublime truths,

is superior to the mean passions of human nature; the idea of infinite

grandeur subdues the pride of man; the delight of contemplation

abstracts him from gross desires; and if the immense Being, who is the

subject of his thoughts had no existence, it would nevertheless be of

use to exercise his mind in such meditations, in order to make him

more master of himself, more vigorous, more discreet, and more happy.

Do you require a particular instance of the vain subtleties framed by

that self sufficient reason, which so vainly relies on its own

strength? Let us coolly examine the arguments of those philosophers,

those worthy advocates of a crime, which never yet reduced any whose

minds were not previously corrupted. Might one not conclude that, by a

direct attack of the most holy and most solemn of all contracts, these

dangerous disputants were determined at one stroke to annihilate human

society in general, which is founded on the faith of engagements? But

let us consider, I beseech you, how they exculpate secret adultery? it

is because, say they, no mischief arises from it; not even to the

husband, who is ignorant of the wrong. But, can they be certain that

he will always remain ignorant of the injury offered him? is it

sufficient to authorise perjury and infidelity, that they do no wrong

to others? is the mischief which the guilty do to themselves, not

sufficient to create an abhorrence of guilt? is it no crime to be

false to our word, to destroy, as far as we are able, the obligation

of oaths, and the most inviolable contracts? is it no crime to take

pains to render ourselves false, treacherous, and perjured? is it no

crime to form attachments, which occasion you to desire the prejudice,

and to wish the death of another? even the death of one whom we ought

to love above others, and with whom we have sworn to live? is not that

state in itself an evil, which is productive of a thousand

consequential crimes? even good itself, if attended with so many

mischiefs, would, for that reason only, be an evil.

Shall one of the parties pretend to innocence, who may chance to be

disengaged, and have pledged his faith to no one? He is grossly

mistaken. It is not only the interest of husband and wife, but it is

the common benefit of mankind, that the purity of marriage be

preserved unsullied. Whenever two persons are joined together by that

solemn contract, all mankind enter into a tacit engagement to respect

the sacred tie, and to honour the conjugal union; and this appears to

be a powerful reason against clandestine marriages, which, as they

express no public sign of such an union, expose innocent maids to the

temptation of adulterous passion. The public are in some measure

guarantees of a control which passes in their presence; and we may

venture to say, that the honour of a modest woman is under the special

protection of all good and worthy people. Whoever therefore dares to

seduce her, sins; first because he has tempted her to sin, and that

every one is an accomplice in those crimes which he persuades others

to commit: in the next place, he sins directly himself, because he

violates the public and sacred faith of matrimony, without which no

order or regularity can subsist in society.

The crime, say they, is secret, consequently no injury can result from

it to any one. If these philosophers believe the existence of a God

and the immortality of the human soul, can they call that crime

secret, which has for its witness the Being principally offended, and

the only righteous judge? it is a strange kind of a secret, which is

hid from all eyes, except those from which it is our interest most to

conceal it! if they do not however admit of the omnipresence of the

Divinity, yet how can they dare to affirm that they do injury to no

one? how can they prove that it is a matter of indifference to a

parent to educate heirs who are strangers to his blood; to be

encumbered perhaps with more children than he would otherwise have

had, and to be obliged to distribute his fortune among those pledges

of his dishonour, without feeling for them any sensations of parental

tenderness, and natural affection. If we suppose these philosophers to

be materialists, we have then a stronger foundation for opposing their

tenets by the gentle dictates of nature, which plead in every breath

against the principles of a vain philosophy, which have never yet been

controverted by sound reasoning. In short, if the body alone produces

cogitation, and sentiment depends entirely on organization, will there

not be a more strict analogy between two beings of the same blood;

will they not have a more violent attachment to each other, will there

not be a resemblance between their souls as well as their features,

which is a most powerful motive to inspire mutual affection?

Is it doing no injury therefore, in your opinion, to destroy or

disturb this natural union by the mixture of adulterate blood, and to

pervert the principle of that mutual affection, which ought to cement

all the members of one family? who would not shudder with horror at

the thoughts of having one infant changed for another by a nurse? and

is it a less crime to make such a change before the infant is born?

If I consider my own sex in particular, what mischiefs do I discover

in this incontinency, which is supposed to do no injury! the

debasement of a guilty woman, who, after the loss of her honour, soon

forfeits all other virtues, is alone sufficient. What manifest

symptoms convey to a tender husband the intelligence of that injury

which they think to justify by secrecy! the loss of the wife’s

affection is sufficient proof. To what purpose will all her affected

endeavours serve, but to manifest her indifference the more? can we

impose upon the jealous eye of love by feigned caresses? and what

torture must he feel, who is attached to a beloved object, whose hand

embraces, while her heart rejects him! Admitting however that fortune

should favour a conduct which she has so often betrayed, and to say

nothing of the rashness of trusting our own affected innocence and

another’s peace to precautions which Providence often thinks proper to

disconcert----yet what deceit, what falsehood, what imposture, is

requisite to conceal a criminal commerce, to deceive a husband, to

corrupt servants, and to impose upon the public! what a disgrace to

the accomplices! what an example to children! what must become of

their education amidst so much solicitude how to gratify a guilty

passion with impunity! how is the peace of the family and the union of

the heads of it to be maintained? what! in all these circumstances

does the husband receive no injury? but who can make him recompense

for a heart which should have been devoted to him? who can restore him

the affections of a valuable woman? who can give him peace of mind,

and conjugal confidence! who can cure him of his well-grounded

suspicions? who can engage a father to trust the feelings of nature,

when he embraces his child?

With regard to the pretended connections which may be formed in

families by means of adultery and infidelity, it cannot be considered

as a serious argument, but rather as an absurd and brutal mockery,

which deserves no other answer than disdain and indignation. The

treasons, the quarrels, the battles, the murders with which this

irregularity has in all ages pestered the earth, are sufficient proofs

how far the peace and union of mankind is to be promoted by

attachments founded in guilt. If any social principle results from

this vile and despicable commerce, it may be compared to that which

unites a band of robbers, and which ought to be destroyed and

annulled, in order to ensure the safety of lawful communities.

I have endeavoured to suppress the indignation which these principles

excited in me, in order to discuss them with greater moderation. The

more extravagant and ridiculous I find them, the more I am interested

to refute them, in order to make myself ashamed of having listened to

them with too little reserve. You see how ill they can endure the test

of sound reason; but from whence can we derive the sacred dictates of

reason, if not from him who is the source of all? and what shall we

think of those who, in order to mislead mankind, pervert this heavenly

ray, which he gave them as an unerring guide to virtue? Let us abandon

this philosophy of words; let us distrust a fallacious virtue which

undermines all other virtues, and attempts to vindicate every vice, to

authorize the practice of every species of guilt. The surest method of

discovering our duty is diligently to examine what is right, and we

cannot long continue the examination, without recurring to the author

of all goodness. This is what I have done, since I have taken pains to

rectify my principals, and improve my reason: this is a task you will

perform better than I, when you are disposed to pursue the same

course. It is a comfort to me to reflect, that you have frequently

nourished my mind with elevated notions of religion, and you whose

heart disguised nothing from me, would not have talked to me in that

strain, had your sentiments differed from your declaration. I

recollect that conversations of this kind were ever delightful to us.

We never found the presence of the supreme Being troublesome: it

rather filled us with hope than terror: it never yet dismayed any but

guilty souls; we were pleased to think that he was witness to our

interviews, and we loved to exalt our minds to the contemplation of

the deity. If we were now and then abased by shame, we reflected, that

at least he was privy to our in most thoughts, and that idea renewed

our tranquillity.

If this confidence led us astray, nevertheless the principle on which

it was founded, is alone capable of reclaiming us to virtue. Is it not

unworthy of a man to be always at variance with himself, to have one

rule for his actions, another for his opinions, to think as if he was

abstracted from matter, to act as if he was devoid of soul, and never

to be capable of appropriating a single action of his life to his own

entire self? for my own part, I think the principles of the ancients

are sufficient to fortify us, when they are not confined to mere

speculation. Weakness is incident to human nature, and the merciful

Being who made man frail, will no doubt pardon his frailty; but guilt

is a quality which belongs only to the wicked, and will not remain

unpunished by the author of all justice. An infidel, who is otherwise

well inclined, praises those virtues he admires; he acts from taste,

not from choice. If all his desires happen to be regular, he indulges

them without reserve. He would gratify them in the same manner, if

they were irregular; for what should restrain him? But he who

acknowledges and worships the common father of mankind, perceives that

he is destined for nobler purposes. An ardent wish to fulfil the end

of his being, animates his zeal; he follows a more certain rule of

action than appetite; he knows how to do what is right at the expense

of his inclinations, and to sacrifice the desires of his heart to the

call of duty. Such, my dear friend, is the heroic sacrifice required

of us both. The love which attached us would have proved the delight

of our lives; it survived hope, it bid defiance to time and absence,

it endured every kind of proof. So sincere a passion ought not ever to

have decayed of itself; it was worthy to be sacrificed to virtue

alone.

I must observe farther. All circumstances are altered between us, and

your heart must accommodate itself to the change. The wife of Mr.

Wolmar is not your former Eloisa; your change of sentiment, with

regard to her, is unavoidable; and it depends upon your own choice to

make the alteration redound to your honour, according to the election

you make of vice or virtue. I recollect a passage in an author, whose

authority you will not controvert. Love, says he, is destitute of its

greatest charm, when it is abandoned by honour. To be sensible of its

true value, it must warm the heart, and exalt us by raising the object

of our desires. Take away the idea of perfection, and you deprive love

of all its enthusiasm; banish esteem, and love is no more. How can a

woman honour the man whom she ought to despise? how can he himself

honour her, who has not scrupled to abandon herself to a vile seducer?

thus they will soon entertain a mutual contempt for each other. Love,

that celestial principle, will be debased into a shameful commerce

between them. They will have lost their honour without attaining

felicity. [45] This, my dear friend, is our lesson, penned by your own

hand! Never were our hearts more agreeably attached, and never was

honour so dear to us as in those happy days when this letter was

written. Reflect then, how we should be misled at this time by a

guilty passion, nourished at the expense of the most agreeable

transports which can inspire the soul! The horror of vice which is so

natural to us both, would soon extend to the partner of our guilt; we

should entertain mutual hatred, for having loved each other

indiscreetly, and remorse would quickly extinguish affection. Is it

not better to refine a generous sentiment, in order to render it

permanent? is it not better at least to preserve what we may grant

with innocence? is not this preserving what is more delightful than

all other enjoyments? yes, my dear and worthy friend, to keep our love

inviolable, we must renounce each other. Let us forget all that has

passed, and continue the lover of my soul. This idea is so agreeable

that it compensates for every thing.

Thus have I drawn a faithful picture of my life, and given you a

genuine detail of every inward sentiment. Be assured that I love you

still. I am still attached to you with such a tender and lively

affection, that any other than myself would be alarmed: but I feel a

principle of a different kind within me, which secures me against any

apprehensions from my attachment. I perceive that the nature of my

affection is entirely altered, and in this respect, my past failings

are the grounds of my present security; I know that scrupulous decorum

and the parade of virtue might require more of me, and not be

satisfied unless I utterly forgot you. But I have a more certain rule

of conduct, and I will abide by it. I attend to the secret dictates of

conscience; I find nothing there which reproaches me, and it never

deceives those who consult it with sincerity. If this is not

sufficient to justify me before the world, it is enough to restore me

to composure of mind. How has this happy change been produced? I know

not how. All I know is, that I wished for it most ardently. God alone

has accomplished the rest. I am convinced that a mind once corrupted,

will ever remain so, and will never recover of itself, unless some

sudden revolution, some unexpected change of fortune and condition,

entirely alters its connections. When all its habits are destroyed,

and all its passions modified, by that thorough revolution, it

sometimes resumes its primitive characters, and becomes like a new

being recently formed by the hands of nature. Then the recollection of

its former unworthiness may serve as a preservative against relapse.

Yesterday we were base and abject; to-day we are vigorous and

magnanimous. By thus making a close compassion between the two

different states, we become more sensible of the value of that which

we have recovered, and more attentive to support it.

My marriage has made me experience something like the change I

endeavour to explain to you. This tie, which I dreaded so much, has

extricated me from a slavery much more dreadful; and my husband

becomes dearer to me, for having restored me to myself.

You and I were, however, too closely attached, for a change of this

kind to destroy the unison between us. If you lose an affectionate

mistress, you gain a faithful friend; and whatever we may have

imagined in our state of delusion, I cannot believe that the

alteration is to your prejudice. Let it, I conjure you, encourage you

to take the same resolution that I have formed, to become hereafter

more wise and virtuous, and to refine the lessons of philosophy, by

the precepts of Christian morality. I shall never be thoroughly happy,

unless you likewise enjoy happiness, and I am more convinced than

ever, that there is no real felicity without virtue. If you sincerely

love me, afford me the agreeable consolation to find that our hearts

correspond in their return to virtue, as they unhappily agreed in

their deviation from it.

I need not make any apology for the length of my epistle. Were you

less dear to me, I should have shortened it. Before I conclude, I have

one favour to request of you. M. Wolmar is a stranger to my past

conduct; but a frank sincerity is part of the duty I owe to him; I

should have made the confession a hundred times; you alone have

restrained me. Though I am acquainted with M. Wolmar’s discretion and

moderation, yet to mention your name, is always to bring you in

competition, and I would not do it without your consent. Can this

request be disagreeable to you, and when I flatter myself to obtain

your leave, do I depend too much on you or on myself? consider, I

beseech you, that this reserve is inconsistent with innocence, that it

grows every day more insupportable, and that I shall not enjoy a

moment’s rest till I receive your answer.

Letter CXII. To Eloisa.

And will you no longer be my Eloisa? ah! do not tell me so, thou most

worthy of all thy sex! Thou art more mine than ever. Thy merit claims

homage from the whole world. It was thee whom I adored, when I first

became susceptible of the impressions of beauty: and I shall never

cease to adore thee, even after death, if my soul still retains any

recollection of those truly celestial charms, which were my sole

delight when living. The courageous effort by which you have recovered

all your virtue, renders you more equal to your lovely self. No,

whatever torment the sensation and the confession give me, yet I must

declare that you never were my Eloisa more perfectly, than at this

moment in which you renounce me. Alas! I regain my Eloisa, by losing

her for ever. But I, whose heart shudders even at an attempt to

imitate your virtue, I, who am tormented with a criminal passion which

I can neither support nor subdue, am I the man whom I vainly imagined

myself to be? was I worthy of your esteem? what right had I to

importune you with my complaints and my despair? did it become me, to

presume so high for you? Ah! what was I, that I should dare to love

Eloisa?

Fool that I am! as tho’ I did not feel myself sufficiently humbled,

without taking pains to seek fresh circumstances of humiliation! why

should I increase my mortification by enumerating distinctions unknown

to love? It was that which exalted me; and which made me your equal.

Our hearts were blended, we shared our sentiments in common, and mine

partook of the elevation of yours. Behold me now sunk into my pristine

baseness! thou gentle hope, which didst so long feed my soul to

deceive me, art thou then extinguished without a prospect of return?

will she not be mine? must I lose her for ever? does she make another

happy?----O rage! O torments of hell!----O faithless! ought you

ever----pardon me, pardon me! dearest madam! have pity on my

distraction. O! you had too much reason when you told me, she is no

more----She is indeed no more than affectionate Eloisa, to whom I

could disclose every emotion of my heart. How could I complain when I

found myself unhappy? could she listen to my complaints? was I

unhappy?----what then am I now? No, I will not make you blush for

yourself or me. Hope is no more, we must renounce each other; we must

part. Virtue herself has pronounced the decree; and your hand has been

capable of transcribing it. Let us forget each other----Forget me, at

least. I am determined, I swear, that I will never speak to you of

myself again.

May I yet venture to talk of you, and to interest myself in what is

now the only object of my concern; I mean your happiness? In

describing to me the state of your mind, you say nothing of your

present situation. As a reward of the sacrifice I have made, of which

you ought to be sensible, at least deign to deliver me from this

insupportable doubt. Eloisa, are you happy? if you are, give me the

only comfort of which my despair is susceptible; if you are not, be

compassionate enough to tell me so; my misery then will be less

durable.

The more I reflect on the confession you propose to make, the less I

am inclined to consent to it, and the same motive which always

deprived me of resolution to deny your requests, renders me inexorable

in this particular. It is a subject of the last importance, and I

conjure you to weigh my reasons with attention. First, your excessive

delicacy seems to lead you into a mistake, and I do not see on what

foundation the most rigid virtue can exact such a confession from you.

No engagement whatever can have any retro-active effect. We cannot

bind ourselves with respect to time past, nor promise what is not in

our power to perform! how can you be obliged to give your husband an

account of the use you formerly made of your liberty, or how can you

be responsible to him for a fidelity which you never promised to him?

Do not deceive yourself, Eloisa; it is not to your husband, it is to

your friend, that you have violated your engagement. Before we were

separated by your father’s tyranny, heaven and nature had formed us

for each other. By entering into other connections, you have been

guilty of a crime, which love and honour can never forgive; and it is

I who have a right to reclaim the prize, which M. Wolmar has ravished

from my arms.

If, under any circumstances, duty can exact such a confession, it is

when the danger of a relapse obliges a prudent woman to take

precautions for her security. But your letter has given me more light

into your real sentiments than you imagine. In reading it, I felt in

my own heart, how much yours, upon a near approach, nay even in the

bosom of love, would have abhorred a criminal connection, the horror

of which was only diminished by its distance.

As duty and honour do not require such confidence, prudence and reason

forbid it; for it is running a needless risk of forfeiting every

thing that is dear in wedlock, the attachment of a husband, mutual

confidence, and the peace of the family. Have you thoroughly weighed

the consequences of such a step? are you sufficiently acquainted with

your husband, to be certain of the effect it will produce in his

disposition? do you know how many men there are, who, from such a

confession, would conceive an immoderate jealousy, and an invincible

contempt, and would probably be provoked, even to attempt your life?

in such a nice examination, we ought to attend to time, place, and the

difference of characters. In the country where I reside at present,

such a confidence would be attended with no danger; and they who make

so light of conjugal fidelity, are not people to be violently affected

by any frailty of conduct prior to the engagement. Not to mention

reasons which sometimes render those confessions indispensable, and

which cannot be applied to your case, I knew some women of tolerable

estimation, who, with very little risk, have made a merit of that kind

of sincerity, in order perhaps by that sacrifice, to obtain a

confidence which they might afterwards abuse at will. But in those

countries where the sanctity of marriage is more respected, in those

countries where that sacred tie forms a solid union, and where

husbands have a real attachment to their wives, they require a more

severe account of their conduct; they expect that their hearts should

never have felt any tender affections but for themselves; usurping a

right which they have not, they unreasonably expect their wives to

have been theirs, even before they belonged to them, and they are as

unwilling to excuse an abuse of liberty, as a real infidelity.

Believe me, virtuous Eloisa, and distrust this fruitless and

unnecessary zeal. Keep this dangerous secret, which nothing can oblige

you to reveal; the discovery of which might utterly ruin you, without

being of any advantage to your husband. If he is worthy of such a

confession, it will disturb his peace of mind; and you will have the

mortification of having afflicted him without reason; if he is

unworthy, why will you give him a pretence for using you ill? How do

you know whether your virtue, which has defended you from the assaults

of your heart, will likewise support you against the influence of

domestic troubles daily reviving? Do not voluntarily increase your

misfortunes, lest they become too powerful for your resistance, and

you should at length relapse by means of your scruples into a worse

condition, than that from which you have with so much difficulty

disengaged yourself. Prudence is the basis of every virtue; consult

that, I intreat you, in this most important crisis of your life; and

if the fatal secret oppresses you so violently, wait at least, before

you unbosom yourself, till time and a length of years, shall have made

you more perfectly acquainted with your husband: stay till his heart,

now affected by the power of your beauty, shall be susceptible of

those more lasting impressions, which the charms of your disposition

cannot fail to make, and till he is become habitually sensible of your

perfections. After all, if these reasons, powerful as they are, should

not convince you, yet do not refuse to listen to the voice which

utters them. O Eloisa, hearken to a man who is yet, in some degree,

susceptible of virtue, and who has a right to expect some concession

from you at least, in return for the sacrifice he has made to you to-

day.

I must conclude this letter. I find that I cannot forbear resuming a

strain, to which you must no longer give ear. Eloisa, I must part with

you! young as I am, am I already destined to renounce felicity? O

time, never to be recalled! time irrevocably past, source of ever-

lasting sorrows! pleasures, transports, delightful ecstasies,

delicious moments, celestial raptures! my love, my only love, the

honour and delight of my soul! Farewell for ever.

Letter CXIII. From Eloisa.

You ask me, whether I am happy? The question affects me, and by your

manner of asking it, you facilitate my answer; for so far from wishing

to banish you from my memory as you desire me, I confess that I should

not be happy was your affection for me to cease: yet at present I am

happy in most respects, and nothing but your felicity is wanting to

compleat mine. If, in my last, I avoided making any mention of Mr.

Wolmar, it was out of tenderness to you. I was too well acquainted

with your sensibility of temper, not to be under apprehensions of

irritating your pain; but your solicitude with regard to my felicity,

obliging me to mention him on whom it depends, I cannot speak of him

without doing justice to his worth, as becomes his wife, and a friend

to truth.

Mr. Wolmar is near fifty years of age; but by means of an uniform

regular course of life, and a serenity not ruffled by any violent

passions, he has preserved such a healthy constitution, and such a

florid complexion, that he scarce appears to be forty, and he bears no

symptoms of age, but prudence and experience. His countenance is noble

and engaging, his address open and unaffected, his manner rather

sincere than courteous, he speaks little and with great judgment, but

without any affectation of being concise and sententious. His

behaviour is the same to every one, he neither courts nor shuns any

individual, and he never gives any preference but what reason

justifies.

In spite of his natural indifference, his heart, seconding my father’s

inclinations, entertained a liking for me, and for the first time

formed a tender attachment. This moderate and lasting affection has

been governed by such strict rules of decorum, and observed such a

constant uniformity, that he was under no necessity of altering his

manners on changing his condition, and, without violating conjugal

decorum, his behaviour to me now is the time as it was before

marriage. I never saw him either gay or melancholy, but always

contented; he never talks to me of himself, and seldom of me; he is

not in continual search after me, but he does not seem displeased that

I should seek his company, and he seems to part from me unwillingly.

He is serious without disposing others to be grave; on the contrary,

his serenity of manners seems an invitation to me to be sprightly; and

as the pleasures I relish are the only pleasures of which he is

susceptible, an endeavour to amuse myself is among the duties I owe to

him. In one word, he wishes to see me happy; he has not told me so,

but his conduct declares it; and to wish the happiness of a wife,

is to make her really happy.

With all the attention with which I have been able to observe him, I

cannot discover any particular passion to which he is attached, except

his affection for me; it is however so even and temperate, that one

would conclude he had power to limit the degree of his passion, and

that he had determined not to love beyond the bounds of discretion. He

is in reality what Lord B---- is in his own imagination; in this

respect I find him greatly preferable to those passionate lovers, of

whom we are so fond; for the heart deceives us a thousand ways, and

acts from a suspicious principle; but reason always proposes a just

end; the rules of duty which it enjoins are sure, evident and

practicable; and whenever our reason is led astray we enter into idle

speculations, which were never intended to be objects of her

examination.

Mr. Wolmar’s chief delight is observation. He loves to judge of men’s

characters and actions. He generally forms his judgment with perfect

impartiality and profound penetration. If an enemy was to do him an

injury, he would discuss every motive and expedient with as much

composure, as if he was transacting any indifferent concern. I do not

know by what means he has heard of you, but he has often spoken of

you, with great esteem, to me; and I am sure he is incapable of

disguise. I have imagined sometimes that he took particular notice of

me during these conversations; but in all probability, the observation

I apprehended, was nothing but the secret reproach of an alarmed

conscience. However it be, in this respect I did my duty; neither fear

nor shame occasioned me to shew an unjust reserve; and I did you

justice before him, as I now do him justice before you.

I forgot to tell you concerning our income, and the management of it.

The wreck of Mr. Wolmar’s inheritance, with the addition from my

father, who has only reserved a pension for himself, makes up a

handsome and moderate fortune, which Mr. Wolmar uses with generosity

and discretion, by maintaining in his family, not an inconvenient and

vain display of luxury, [46] but plenty, with the real conveniences of

life; and by distributing necessaries among his indigent neighbours.

The economy he has established in his houshold, is the image of that

order which reigns in his own breast; and his little family seems to

be a model of that regularity, which is observable in the government

of the world. You neither discover that inflexible formality which is

rather inconvenient than useful, and which no one but he who exerts it

can endure; nor do you perceive that mistaken confusion, which, by

being encumbered with superfluities, renders every thing useless. The

master’s hand is seen throughout, without being felt, and he made his

first arrangement with so much discretion, that every thing now goes

on by itself; and regularity is preserved, without any abridgment of

liberty.

This, my worthy friend, is a succinct but faithful account of Mr.

Wolmar’s character, as far as I have been able to discover it since I

lived with him. Such as he appeared to me the first day, such he

seemed the last, without any alteration; which induces me to hope that

I know him thoroughly, and that I have no farther discoveries to make;

for I cannot conceive any change in his behaviour which will not be to

his disadvantage.

From this account, you may anticipate the answer to your question, and

you must think despicably of me not to suppose me happy, when I have

so much reason to be so. What led me into a mistake, and what perhaps

still misleads you, is the opinion, that love is necessary to make the

married state happy. My good friend, this is a vulgar error; honour,

virtue a certain conformity, not so much of age and condition as of

temper and inclination, are the requisites in the conjugal state:

nevertheless it must not be inferred from hence that this union does

not produce an affectionate attachment, which, though it does not

amount to love, is not less agreeable, and is much more permanent.

Love is attended with a continual inquietude of jealousy, or the dread

of separation, by no means suitable with a married life, which should

be a state of peace and tranquillity. The intent of matrimony is not

for man and wife to be always taken up with each other, but jointly to

discharge the duties of civil society, to govern their family with

prudence, and educate their children with discretion. Lovers attend to

nothing but each other, they are incessantly engaged with each other;

and all that they regard, is how to shew their mutual affection. But

this is not enough for a married pair, who have so many other objects

to engage their attention. There is no passion whatever which exposes

us to such delusion, as that of love. We take its violence for a

symptom of its duration; the heart over-burthened with such an

agreeable sensation, extends itself to futurity; and while the heat of

love continues, we flatter ourselves that it will never cool. But, on

the contrary, it is consumed by its own ardour; it glows in youth, it

grows faint with decaying beauty, it is utterly extinguished by the

frost of age; and since the beginning of the world, there never was an

instance of two lovers who sighed for each other, when they became

grey-headed. We may be assured that, sooner or later, adoration will

cease; then the idol which we worshipped being demolished, we

reciprocally see each other in a true light. We look with surprise,

for the object on which we doated; not being able to discover it more.

We are displeased with that which remains in its stead, and which our

imagination often disfigures, as much as it embellished it before;

there are few people, says Rochefoucauld, who are not ashamed of

having loved each other, when their affection is extinguished. How

much is it to be dreaded therefore, lest these two lively sensations

should be succeeded by an irksome state of mind, lest their decline

instead of stopping at indifference, should even reach absolute

disgust; lest, in short, being entirely satiated, they, who were too

passionately fond of each other as lovers, should come to hate each

other as husband and wife! My dear friend, you always appeared amiable

in my eyes, too fatally so for my innocence and repose, but I never

yet saw you but in the character of a lover, and how do I know in what

light you would have appeared, when your passion was no more? I must

confess, that when love expired, it would still have left you in

possession of virtue; but is that alone sufficient to make an union

happy, which the heart ought to cement? and how many virtuous men have

made intolerable husbands? In all these respects, you may say the same

of me.

As to Mr. Wolmar, no delusion is the foundation of our mutual liking;

we see each other in a true light; the sentiment which unites us is

not the blind transport of passionate desire; but a constant and

invariable attachment between two rational people, who being destined

to pass the remainder of their lives together, are content with their

lot, and endeavour to make themselves mutually agreeable. It seems as

if we could not have suited each other better, had we been formed on

purpose for our union. Had his heart been as tender as mine, it is

impossible but so much sensibility on each side must sometimes have

clashed, and occasioned disagreements. If I was as composed as he,

there would be too much indifference between us, and our union would

be less pleasing and agreeable. If he did not love me, we should be

uneasy together; if his love for me was too passionate, he would be

troublesome to me. We are each of us exactly made for the other; he

instructs me, I enliven him; the value of both is increased by our

union, and we seem destined to form but one soul between us; to which

he gives intelligence, and I direct the will. Even his advanced age

redounds to our common advantage; for with the passion which agitated

me, it is certain that had he been younger, I should have married him

with more unwillingness, and my extreme reluctance would probably have

prevented the happy revolution I have experienced.

My worthy friend, heaven directs the good intention of parents, and

rewards the docility of children. God forbid that I should wish to

insult your affliction. Nothing but a strong desire of giving you the

firmest assurance with respect to my present condition, could induce

me to add what I am going to mention. If, with the sentiments I

formerly entertained for you, with the knowledge I have since

acquired, I was once more my own mistress, and at liberty to chuse a

husband, I call that Being, who has vouchsafed to enlighten me, and

who reads the bottom of my heart, to witness my sincerity when I

declare that I should make choice, not of you, but Mr. Wolmar.

Perhaps it may be necessary, to compleat your cure, that I should

inform you of what farther remains in my mind. Mr. Wolmar is much

older than me. If, to punish my failings, heaven should deprive me of

a worthy husband, whom I so little deserved, it is my firm resolution

never to espouse another. If he has not had the good fortune to meet

with a chaste virgin, at least he will leave behind him a continent

widow. You know me too well, to imagine that, after I have made this

declaration, I shall ever recede from it.

What I have said to remove your doubts, may, in some measure, serve to

resolve your objections against the confession which I think it my

duty to make to my husband. He is too discreet to punish me for a

mortifying step which repentance alone may atone for, and I am not

more incapable of the artifice common to the women you speak of, than

he is of harbouring such a suspicion. With respect to the reason you

assign why such a confession is needless, it is certainly sophistical;

for, though we can be under no obligation to a husband, as such,

before marriage, yet that does not authorise one to pass upon him, for

what one really is not. I perceived this before I married him, and

tho’ the oath which my father extorted from me prevented me from

discharging my duty in this respect, I am not the less blameable,

since it is a crime to take an unjust oath, and a farther crime to

keep it. But I had another reason, which my heart dared not avow, and

which made my guilt greater still. Thank heaven, that reason subsists

no longer.

A consideration more just, and of greater weight with me, is the

danger of unnecessarily disturbing the peace of a worthy man, who

derives his happiness from the esteem he bears to his wife. It

certainly is not now in his power to break the tie which binds us

together, nor in mine to have been more worthy of his choice.

Therefore, by an indiscreet confidence, I run the risk of afflicting

him without any advantage, and without reaping any other benefit from

my sincerity, than that of discharging my mind of a cruel secret which

oppresses me heavily. I am sensible that I shall be more composed when

I have made the discovery; but perhaps he would be less happy, and to

prefer my own peace to his, would be a bad method of making reparation

for my faults.

What then shall I do in this dilemma? Till heaven shall better

instruct me in my duty, I will follow your friendly advice; I will be

silent; conceal my failings from my husband, and endeavour to repair

them by a conduct, which may hereafter secure me a pardon.

To begin this necessary reformation, you must consent, my dear friend,

that from this time, all correspondence between us shall cease. If Mr.

Wolmar had received my confession, he might have determined how far we

ought to gratify the sensations of friendship, and give innocent

proofs of our mutual attachment; but since I dare not consult him in

this particular, I have learned to my cost, how far habits the most

justifiable in appearance, are capable of leading us astray. It is

time to grow discreet. Notwithstanding I think my heart securely

fortified, yet I will no longer venture to be judge in my own cause,

nor now am I a wife, will I gave way to the same presumption which

betrayed me when I was a maid. This is the last letter you will ever

receive from me. I intreat you never to write to me again.

Nevertheless, as I shall always continue to interest myself with the

most tender concern for your welfare, and as my sentiment in this

respect is as pure as the light, I shall be glad to hear of you

occasionally, and to find you in possession of that happiness you

deserve. You may write to Mr. Orbe from time to time when you have any

thing interesting to communicate. I hope that the integrity of your

soul will be expressed in your letters. Besides, my cousin is too

virtuous and discreet, to shew me any part which is not fit for my

perusal, and would not fail to suppress the correspondence, if you

were capable of abusing it.

Farewell, my dear and worthy friend; if I thought that fortune could

make you happy, I should desire you to go in pursuit of her; but

perhaps you have reason to despise her, being master of such

accomplishments as will enable you to thrive without her assistance. I

would rather desire you to seek happiness, which is the fortune of the

wise; we have ever experienced that there is no felicity without

virtue but examine carefully whether the word virtue, taken in too

abstracted a sense, has not more pomp than solidity in it, and whether

it is not a term of parade, more calculated to dazzle others, than to

satisfy ourselves. I shudder when I reflect that they who secretly

meditated adultery, should dare to talk of virtue! do you know in what

sense we understood this respectable epithet, which we abused while we

were engaged in a criminal commerce? it was the impetuous passion with

which we were mutually inflamed, that disguised its transports under

this sacred enthusiasm, in order to render them more dear to us, and

to hold us longer in delusion. We were formed, I dare believe, to

practise and cherish real virtue, but we were misguided in our pursuit

it, and we pursued a vain phantom. It is time to recover from this

delusion; it is time to return from a deviation which has carried us

too far astray. My dear friend, your return to wisdom will not be so

difficult as you conceive. You have a guide within yourself, whose

directions you have disregarded, but never entirely rejected. Your

mind is sound, it is attached to what is right, and if just principles

sometimes forsake you, it is because you do not use your utmost

efforts to maintain them. Examine your conscience thoroughly, see

whether you will not discover some neglected principle, which might

have served to put your actions under better regulations, to have made

them more consistent with each other, and with one common object.

Believe me, it is not sufficient that virtue is the basis of your

conduct, unless that basis itself is fixed on a firm foundation. Call

to your mind those Indians, who imagine the world is supported by a

great elephant, that elephant by a tortoise, and when you ask them on

what the tortoise rests, they can answer you no farther.

I conjure you to regard the remonstrances of friendship, and to chuse

a more certain road to happiness than that which has so long misguided

us. I shall incessantly pray to heaven to grant us pure felicity, and

I shall never be satisfied till we both enjoy it. And, if our hearts,

spite of our endeavours, recall the errors of our youth, let the

reformation they produced at least warrant the recollection, that we

may say, with the ancient philosopher----Alas! we should have

perished, if we had not been undone.

Here ends the tedious sermon I have preached to you. I shall have

enough to do hereafter to preach to myself. Farewell, my amiable

friend, farewell for ever! so inflexible duty decrees: but be assured

that the heart of Eloisa can never forget what was so dear to her----

my God! what am I doing? the condition of the paper will tell you. Ah!

is it not excusable to dissolve in tenderness, when we take the last

farewell of a friend?

Letter CXIV. To Lord B----.

Yes, my Lord, I confess it; the weight of life is too heavy for my

soul. I have long endured it as a burthen; I have lost every thing

which could make it dear to me, and nothing remains but irksomeness

and vexation. I am told however, that I am not at liberty to dispose

of my life, without the permission of that Being from whom I received

it. I am sensible likewise, that you have a right over it by more

titles than one. Your care has twice preserved it, and your goodness

is its constant security. I will never dispose of it, till I am

certain that I may do it without a crime, and till I have not the

least hope of employing it for your service.

You told me that I should be of use to you; why did you deceive me?

Since we have been in _London_, so far from thinking of employing me

in your concerns, you have been kind enough to make me your only

concern. How superfluous is your obliging solicitude! My lord, you

know I abhor a crime, even worse than I detest life; I adore the

supreme Being.----I owe every thing to you. I have an affection for

you, you are the only person on earth to whom I am attached.

Friendship and duty may chain a wretch to this earth: sophistry and

vain pretences will never detain him. Enlighten my understanding,

speak to my heart; I am ready to hear you, but remember, that despair

is not to be imposed upon.

You would have me apply to the test of reason: I will; let us reason.

You desire me to deliberate in proportion to the importance of the

question in debate; I agree to it. Let us investigate truth with

temper and moderation. Let us discuss this general proposition with

the same indifference we would treat any other. Robeck wrote an

apology for suicide before he put an end to his life. I will not,

after his example, write a book on the subject, neither am I well

satisfied with that which he has penned, but I hope in this

discussion, at least to imitate his moderation.

I have for a long time meditated on this awful subject. You must be

sensible that I have; for you know my destiny, and yet I am alive. The

more I reflect, the more I am convinced that the question may be

reduced to this fundamental proposition. Every man has a right by

nature, to pursue what he thinks good, and avoid what he thinks evil,

in all respects which are not injurious to others. When our life

therefore becomes a misery to ourselves, and is of advantage to no

one, we are at liberty to put an end to our being. If there is any

such thing as a clear and self-evident principle, certainly this is

one, and if this is subverted, there is scarce an action in life,

which may not be made criminal.

Let us hear what the philosophers say on this subject. First, they

consider life as something which is not our own, because we hold it as

a gift; but because it has been given to us, it is for that reason our

own. Has not God given these sophists two arms? nevertheless when they

are under apprehensions of a mortification, they do not scruple to

amputate one, or both if there is occasion. By a parity of reasoning,

we may convince those who believe in the immortality of the soul; for

if I sacrifice my arm to the preservation of something more precious,

which is my body, I have the same right to sacrifice my body to the

preservation of something more valuable, which is the happiness of my

existence. If all the gifts which heaven has bestowed, are naturally

designed for our good, they are certainly too apt to change their

nature; and Providence has endowed us with reason, that we may discern

the difference. If this rule did not authorize us to chuse the one

and reject the other, to what use would it serve among mankind?

But they turn this weak objection into a thousand shapes. They

consider a man living upon earth, as a soldier placed on duty. God,

say they, has fixed you in this world, why do you quit your station

without his leave. But you, who argue thus, has he not stationed you

in the town where you was born, why therefore do you quit it without

his leave? is not misery, of itself, a sufficient permission? whatever

station Providence has assigned me, whether it be in a regiment, or on

the earth at large, he intended me to stay there while I found my

situation agreeable, and to leave it when it became intolerable. This

is the voice of nature, and the voice of God. I agree that we must

wait for an order; but when I die a natural death, God does not order

me to quit life, he takes it from me: it is by rendering life

insupportable, that he orders me to quit it. In the first case, I

resist with all my force; in the second, I have the merit of

obedience.

Can you conceive that there are some people so absurd as to arraign

suicide as a kind of rebellion against Providence, by an attempt to

fly from his laws? but we do not put an end to our being, in order to

withdraw ourselves from his commands, but to execute them. What! does

the power of God extend no farther than my body? is there a spot in

the universe, is there any being in the universe which is not subject

to his power, and will that power have less immediate influence over

me, when my being is refined and thereby becomes less compound, and of

nearer resemblance to the divine essence? no, his justice and goodness

are the foundation of my hopes, and if I thought that death would

withdraw me from his power I would give up my resolution to die.

This is one of the quibbles of the Phaedo, which, in other respects,

abounds with sublime truths. If your slave destroys himself says

_Socrates_ to _Cebes_, would you not punish him, for having unjustly

deprived you of your property: prithee, good Socrates, do we not

belong to God after we are dead? The case you put, is not applicable;

you ought to argue thus: if you incumber your slave with a habit which

confines him from discharging his duty properly, will you punish him

for quitting it in order to render you better service? the grand error

lies in making life of too much importance; as if our existence

depended upon it, and that death was a total annihilation. Our life is

of no consequence in the sight of God; it is of no importance in the

eyes of reason, neither ought to be of any in our sight, and when we

quit our body, we only lay aside an inconvenient habit. Is this

circumstance so painful, to be the occasion of so much disturbance? my

lord, these declaimers are not in earnest. Their arguments are absurd

and cruel, for they aggravate the supposed crime, as if it put a

period to existence, and they punish it, as if that existence was

eternal.

With respect to Plato’s Phaedo, which has furnished them with the only

specious argument that has ever been advanced, the question is

discussed there in a very light and desultory manner. Socrates being

condemned, by an unjust judgement, to lose his life in a few hours,

had no occasion to enter into an accurate inquiry whether he was at

liberty to dispose of it himself. Supposing him really to have been

the author of those discourses which Plato ascribes to him, yet

believe me, my lord, he would have meditated with more attention on

the subject, had he been in circumstances which required him to reduce

his speculations to practice;----and a strong proof that no objection

can be drawn from that immortal work against the right of disposing of

our own lives is, that Cato read it twice through the very night that

he destroyed himself.

The same sophisters make it a question whether life can ever be an

evil? but when we consider the multitude of errors, torments and vices

with which it abounds, one would rather be inclined to doubt whether

it can ever be a blessing. Guilt incessantly besieges the most

virtuous of mankind. Every moment he lives, he is in danger of falling

a prey to the wicked, or of being wicked himself. To struggle, and to

endure, is his lot in this world; that of the dishonest man is to do

evil, and to suffer. In every other particular they differ, and only

agree in sharing the miseries of life in common. If you required

authorities and facts, I could cite you the oracles of old, the

answers of the sages; and produce instances where acts of virtue have

been recompensed with death. But let us leave these considerations, my

lord; it is to you whom I address myself, and I ask you what is the

chief attention of a wise man in this life, but, if I may be allowed

the expression, to collect himself inwardly, and endeavour, even while

he lives, to be dead to every object of sense? The only way by which

wisdom directs us to avoid the miseries of human nature, is it not to

detach ourselves from all earthly objects, from every thing that is

gross in our composition, to retire within ourselves, and to raise our

thoughts to sublime contemplations? If therefore our misfortunes are

derived from our passions and our errors, with what eagerness should

we wish for a state which will deliver us both from the one and the

other? what is the fate of those sons of sensuality, who indiscreetly

multiply their torments by their pleasures? they in fact destroy their

existence, by extending their connections in this life; they increase

the weight of their crimes by their numerous attachments; they relish

no enjoyments but what are succeeded by a thousand bitter wants; the

more lively their sensibility, the more acute their sufferings; the

stronger they are attached to life, the more wretched they become.

But admitting it, in general, a benefit to mankind to crawl upon the

earth with gloomy sadness; I do not mean to intimate that the human

race ought with one common consent to destroy themselves, and make the

world one immense grave. But there are miserable beings, who are too

much exalted to be governed by vulgar opinion; to them, despair and

grievous torments are the passports of nature. It would be as

ridiculous to suppose that life can be a blessing to such men, as it

was absurd in the sophister Posidonius to deny that it was an evil, at

the same time that he endured all the torments of the gout. While life

is agreeable to us, we earnestly wish to prolong it, and nothing but a

sense of extreme misery can extinguish the desire of existence; for we

naturally conceive a violent dread of death, and this dread conceals

the miseries of human nature from our sight. We drag a painful and

melancholy life, for a long time before we can resolve to quit it; but

when once life becomes so insupportable as to overcome the horror of

death, then existence is evidently a great evil, and we cannot

disengage ourselves from it too soon. Therefore, though we cannot

exactly ascertain the point at which it ceases to be a blessing, yet

at least we are certain that it is an evil long before it appears to

be such, and with every sensible man the right of quitting life, is by

a great deal precedent to the temptation.

This is not all. After they have denied that life can be an evil, in

order to bar our right of making away with ourselves; they confess

immediately afterwards that it is an evil, by reproaching us with want

of courage to support it. According to them, it is cowardice to

withdraw ourselves from pain and trouble, and there are none but

dastards who destroy themselves. O Rome, thou victrix of the world,

what a race of cowards did thy empire produce! let Arria, Eponina,

Lucretia, be of the number; they were women. But Brutus, but Cassius,

and thou great and divine Cato, who didst share with the gods the

adoration of an astonished world, thou whose sacred and august

presence animated the Romans with holy zeal, and made tyrants tremble,

little did thy proud admirers imagine that paltry rhetoricians immured

in the dusty corner of a college, would ever attempt to prove that

thou wert a coward, for having preferred death to a shameful

existence.

O the dignity and energy of your modern writers! how sublime, how

intrepid you are with your pens? but tell me thou great and valiant

hero, who dost so courageously decline the battle, in order to endure

the pain of living somewhat longer; when a spark of fire lights upon

your hand, why do you withdraw it in such haste? how! are you such a

coward that you dare not bear the scorching of fire? nothing, you say,

can oblige you to endure the burning spark; and what obliges me to

endure life? was the creation of a man of more difficulty to

Providence, than that of a straw, and is not both one and the other

equally the work of his hands?

Without doubt, it is an evidence of great fortitude to bear with

firmness the misery which we cannot shun; none but a fool however,

will voluntarily endure evils which he can avoid without a crime, and

it is very often a great crime to suffer pain unnecessarily. He who

has not resolution to deliver himself from a miserable being by a

speedy death, is like one who would rather suffer a wound to mortify,

than trust to the surgeon’s knife for his cure. Come, thou worthy----

cut off this leg, which endangers my life. I will see it done without

shrinking, and will give that hero leave to call me coward, who

suffers his leg to mortify, because he does not dare to undergo the

same operation.

I acknowledge that there are duties owing to others, the nature of

which will not allow every man to dispose of his life; but in return,

how many are there which give him a right to dispose of it? let a

magistrate on whom the welfare of a nation depends, let a father of a

family who is bound to procure subsistence for his children, let a

debtor who might ruin his creditors, let these at all events discharge

their duty; admitting a thousand other civil and domestic relations to

oblige an honest and unfortunate man to support the misery of life, to

avoid the greater evil of doing injustice, is it therefore, under

circumstances totally different, incumbent on us to preserve a life

oppressed with a swarm of miseries, when it can be of no service but

to him who has not courage to die? “Kill me, my child, says the

decrepit savage to his son who carries him on his shoulders, and bends

under his weight; the enemy is at hand; go to battle with thy

brethren, go and preserve thy children, and do not suffer thy helpless

father to fall alive into the hands of those whose relations he has

mangled.” Though hunger, sickness and poverty, those domestic plagues,

more dreadful than savage enemies, may allow a wretched cripple to

confuse, in a sick bed, the provisions of a family which can scarce

subsist itself; yet he who has no connections, whom heaven has reduced

to the necessity of living alone, whose wretched existence can produce

no good, why should not he, at least, have the right of quitting a

station where his complaints are troublesome, and his sufferings of no

benefit.

Weigh these considerations, my lord; collect these arguments, and you

will find that they may be reduced to the most simple of nature’s

rights, of which no man of sense yet ever entertained a doubt. In

fact, why should we be allowed to cure ourselves of the gout, and not

to get rid of the misery of life? do not both evils proceed from the

same hand? to what purpose is it to say, that death is painful? are

drugs agreeable to be taken? no, nature revolts against both. Let them

prove therefore that it is more justifiable to cure a transient

disorder by the application of remedies, than to free ourselves from

an incurable evil by putting an end to life; and let them shew how it

can be less criminal to use the bark for a fever, than to take opium

for the stone. If we consider the object in view, it is in both cases

to free ourselves from painful sensations; if we regard the means,

both one and the other are equally natural; if we consider the

repugnance of our nature, it operates equally on both sides; if we

attend to the will of Providence, can we struggle against any evil, of

which he is not the author? can we deliver ourselves from any torment

which his hand has not inflicted? what are the bounds which limit his

power, and when is resistance lawful? are we then to make no

alteration in the condition of things, because every thing is in the

state he appointed? must we do nothing in this life, for fear of

infringing his laws, or is it in our power to break them if we would?

no, my lord, the occupation of man is more great and noble. God did

not give him life, that he should remain supinely in a state of

constant inactivity. But he gave him freedom to act, conscience to

will, and reason to chuse what is good. He has constituted him sole

judge of all his actions. He has engraved this precept in his heart,

do whatever you conceive to be for your own good, provided you thereby

do injury to no one. If my sensations tell me that death is eligible,

I resist his orders by an obstinate resolution to live, for by making

death desirable, he directs me to put an end to my being.

My lord, I appeal to your wisdom and candour; what more infallible

maxims can reason deduce from religion, with respect to suicide. If

Christians have adopted contrary tenets, they are neither drawn from

the principles of religion, nor from the only sure guide, the

scriptures, but borrowed from the pagan philosophers. Lactantius and

Augustine, the first who propagated this new doctrine, of which Jesus

Christ and his apostles take no notice, ground their arguments

entirely on the reasoning of Phaedo, which I have already

contraverted; so that the believers, who, in this respect, think they

are supported by the authority of the gospel, are in fact only

countenanced by the authority of Plato. In truth, where do we find

throughout the whole bible any law against suicide, or so much as a

bare disapprobation of it; and is it not very unaccountable, that

among the instances produced of persons who devoted themselves to

death, we do not find the least word of improbation against examples

of this kind? nay, what is more; the instance of Samson’s voluntary

death is authorized by a miracle, by which he revenges himself of his

enemies. Would this miracle have been displayed to justify a crime,

and would this man who lost his strength; by suffering himself to be

seduced by the allurements of a woman, have recovered it to commit an

authorized crime, as if God himself would practise deceit on men?

Thou shalt do no murder, says the decalogue? what are we to infer from

this? if this commandment is to be taken literally, we must not

destroy malefactors, nor our enemies: and Moses, who put so many

people to death, was a bad interpreter of his own precept. If there

are any exceptions, certainly the first must be in favour of suicide,

because it is exempt from any degree of violence and injustice; the

two only circumstances which can make homicide criminal; and because

nature, moreover, has in this respect, thrown sufficient obstacles in

the way.

But still, they tell us, we must patiently endure the evils which God

inflicts; and make a merit of our sufferings. This application however

of the maxims of Christianity is very ill calculated to satisfy our

judgment. Man is subject to a thousand troubles, his life is a

complication of evils, and he seems to have been born only to suffer.

Reason directs him to shun as many of these evils as he can avoid; and

religion, which is never in contradiction to reason, approves of his

endeavours. But how inconsiderable is the account of these evils, in

comparison with those he is obliged to endure against his will? It is

with respect to these, that a merciful God allows man to claim the

merit of resistance; he receives the tribute he has been pleased to

impose, as a voluntary homage, and he places our resignation in this

life to our profit in the next. True repentance is derived from

nature; if man endures patiently whatever he is obliged to suffer, he

does, in this respect, all that God requires of him; and if any one is

so inflated with pride, as to attempt more, he is a madman, who ought

to be confined, or an impostor, who ought to be punished. Let us

therefore, without scruple, fly from all the evils we can avoid; there

will still be too many left for us to endure. Let us, without remorse,

quit life itself when it becomes a torment to us, since it is in our

own power to do it; and that in so doing, we neither offend God nor

man. If we would offer a sacrifice to the supreme Being, is it nothing

to undergo death? let us devote to God that which he demands by the

voice of reason, and into his hands let us peaceably surrender our

souls.

Such are the liberal precepts which good sense dictates to every man,

and which religion authorises. [47] Let us apply these precepts to

ourselves. You have condescended to disclose your mind to me; I am

acquainted with your uneasiness; you do not endure less than myself;

your troubles, like mine, are incurable; and they are the more

remediless, as the laws of honour are more immutable than those of

fortune. You bear them, I must confess, with fortitude. Virtue

supports you; advance but one step farther, and she disengages you.

You intreat me to suffer; my lord! I dare importune you to put an end

to your sufferings; and I leave you to judge which of us is most dear

to the other.

Why should we delay doing that, which we must do at last? shall we

wait till old age and decrepit baseness attach us to life, after they

have robbed it of its charms, and till we are doomed to drag an infirm

and decrepit body with labour, ignominy, and pain. We are at an age

when the soul has vigour to disengage itself with ease from its

shackles, and when a man knows how to die as he ought; when farther

advanced in years, he suffers himself to be torn from life, which he

quits with groans. Let us take advantage of this time when the tedium

of life makes death desirable; and let us tremble for fear it should

come in all its horrors, at the moment when we could wish to avoid it.

I remember the time, when I prayed to heaven only for a single hour of

life, and when I should have died in despair, if it had not been

granted. Ah! what a pain it is to burst asunder the ties which attach

our hearts to this world, and how advisable it is to quit life the

moment the connection is broken! I am sensible, my lord, that we are

both worthy of a purer mansion; virtue points it out, and destiny

invites us to seek it. May the friendship which unites us, preserve

our union to the latest hour. O what a pleasure for two sincere

friends voluntarily to end their days in each other’s arms, to

intermingle their latest breath, and at the same instant to give up

the soul which they shared in common! What pain, what regret can

infect their last moments? what do they quit by taking leave of the

world? They go together; they quit nothing.

Letter CXV. Answer.

Thou art distracted, my friend, by a blind passion; be more discreet;

do not give council, while you stand in need of advice. I have known

greater evils than yours. I am armed with fortitude of mind; I am an

English man, and not afraid to die; for I know how to live and suffer,

as becomes a man. I have seen death near at hand, and have viewed it

with too much indifference to go in search of it.

It is true, I thought you might be of use to me; my affection stood in

need of yours: your endeavours might have been serviceable to me; your

understanding might have enlightened me in the most important concern

of my life; if I do not avail myself of it, who are you to impute it

to? where is it? what is become of it? what are you capable of? of

what use can you be in the condition you are in? what service can I

expect from you? a senseless grief renders you stupid and unconcerned.

Thou art no man; thou art nothing; and if I did not consider you might

be, in your present state I cannot conceive any being more abject.

There is need of no other proof than your letter itself. Formerly I

could discover in you good sense and truth. Your sentiments were just,

your reflections proper, and I liked you not only from judgment but

choice; for I considered your influence as an additional motive to

excite me to study of wisdom. But what do I perceive now in the

arguments of your letter, with which you appear to be to highly

satisfied? A wretched and perpetual sophistry, which, in the erroneous

deviations of your reason, shew the disorder of your mind; and which I

would not stoop to refute, if I did not commiserate your delirium.

To subvert all your reasoning with one word, I would only ask you a

single question. You who believe in the existence of a God, in the

immortality of the soul, and in the free-will of man; you surely

cannot suppose that an intelligent being is embodied, and stationed on

the earth by accident only, to exist, to suffer, and to die. It is

certainly most probable that the life of man is not without some

design, some end, some moral object. I intreat you to give me a direct

answer to this point; after which we will deliberately examine your

letter, and you will blush to have written it.

But let us wave all general maxims, about which we often hold violent

disputes, without adopting any of them in practice; for in their

application, we always find some particular circumstances, which make

such an alteration in the state of things, that every one thinks

himself dispensed from submitting to the rules, which he prescribes to

others; and it is well known, that every man who establishes general

principles, deems them obligatory on all the world, himself excepted.

Once more let us speak to you in particular.

You believe that you have a right to put an end to your being. Your

proof is of a very singular nature; “because I am disposed to die, say

you, I have a right to destroy myself.” This is certainly a very

convenient argument for villains of all kinds: they ought to be very

thankful to you, for the arms with which you have furnished them;

there can be no crimes, which, according to your arguments, may not be

justified by the temptation to perpetrate them, and as soon as the

impetuosity of passion shall prevail over the horror of guilt, their

disposition to do evil will be considered as a right to commit it.

Is it lawful for you therefore to quit life? I should be glad to know

whether you have yet begun to live? what! was you placed here on earth

to do nothing in this world? did not heaven when it gave you

existence, give you some task or employment? If you have accomplished

your day’s work before evening, rest yourself for the remainder of the

day, you have a right to do it; but let us see your work. What answer

are you prepared to make the supreme judge, when he demands an account

of your time? Tell me, what can you say to him----I have seduced a

virtuous girl: I have forsaken a friend in his distress. Thou unhappy

wretch! point out to me that just man who can boast that he has lived

long enough; let me learn from him in what manner I ought to have

spent my days, to be at liberty to quit life.

You enumerate the evils of human nature. You are not ashamed to

exhaust common place topics, which have been hackney’d over a hundred

times; and you conclude that life is an evil. But search, examine into

the order of things; and see whether you can find any good which is

not intermingled with evil. Does it therefore follow that there is no

good in the universe, and can you confound what is in its own nature

evil, with that which is only an evil accidentally? You have confessed

yourself, that the transitory and passive life of man is of no

consequence, and only bears respect to matter, from which he will soon

be disencumbered; but his active and moral life, which ought to have

most influence over his nature, consists in the exercise of free-will.

Life is an evil to a wicked man in prosperity, and a blessing to an

honest man in distress: for it is not its casual modification, but its

relation to some final object, which makes it either good or bad.

After all, what are these cruel torments which force you to abandon

life? do you imagine that under your affected impartiality in the

enumeration of the evils of this life, I did not discover that you was

ashamed to speak of your own? Trust me, and do not at once abandon

every virtue. Preserve at least your wonted sincerity, and speak thus

openly to your friend; I have lost all hope of seducing a modest

woman, I am obliged therefore to be a man of virtue; I had much rather

die.”

You are weary of living; and you tell me, that life is an evil. Sooner

or later you will receive consolation, and then you will say life is a

blessing. You will speak with more truth, though not with better

reason; for nothing will have altered but yourself. Begin the

alteration then from this day, and since all the evil you lament is

in the disposition of your own mind, correct your irregular

appetites, and do not set your house on fire, to avoid the trouble of

putting it in order.

I endure misery, say you; is it in my power to avoid suffering? But

this is changing the state of the question for the subject of enquiry

is, not whether you suffer, but whether your life is an evil? Let us

proceed. You are wretched, you naturally endeavour to extricate

yourself from misery. Let us see whether, for that purpose, it is

necessary to die.

Let us for a moment examine the natural tendency of the afflictions of

the mind, as in direct opposition to the evils of the body, the two

substances being of contrary natures. The latter become worse and more

inveterate the longer they continue, and at length utterly destroy

this mortal machine. The former, on the contrary, being only external

and transitory modifications of an immortal and uncompounded essence,

are insensibly effaced, and leave the mind in its original form, which

is not susceptible of alteration. Grief, disquietude, regret, and

despair, are evils of short duration which never take root in the

mind, and experience always falsifies that bitter reflection, which

makes us imagine our misery will have no end. I will go farther; I

cannot imagine that the vices which contaminate us, are more inherent

in our nature, than the troubles we endure; I not only believe that

they perish with the body which gives them birth, but I think, beyond

all doubt, that a longer life would be sufficient to reform mankind,

and that many ages of youth would teach us that nothing is preferable

to virtue.

However this may be, as the greatest part of our physical evils are

incessantly increasing, the acute pains of the body, when they are

incurable, may justify a man’s destroying himself; for all his

faculties being distracted with pain, and the evil being without

remedy, he has no longer any use either of his will or of his reason;

he ceases to be a man before he is dead, and does nothing more in

taking away his life, than quit a body which incumbers him, and in

which his soul is no longer resident.

But it is otherwise with the afflictions of the mind; which, let them

be ever so acute, always carry their remedy with them. In fact, what

is it that makes any evil intolerable? nothing but its duration. The

operations of surgery are generally much more painful, than the

disorders they cure; but the pain occasioned by the latter is lasting,

that of the operation is momentary, and therefore preferable. What

occasion is there therefore for any operation to remove troubles which

die of course by their duration, the only circumstance which could

render them insupportable? Is it reasonable to apply such desperate

remedies to evils which expire of themselves? To a man who values

himself on his fortitude, and who estimates years at their real value,

of two ways by which he may extricate himself from the same troubles,

which will appear preferable, death or time? Have patience, and you

will be cured. What would you desire more?

Oh! you will say, it doubles my afflictions, to reflect that they will

cease at last! this is the vain sophistry of grief! an apothegm void

of reason, of propriety, and perhaps of sincerity. What an absurd

motive of despair is the hope of terminating misery! [48] Even

allowing this fantastical reflection, who would not chuse to increase

the present pain for a moment, under the assurance of putting an end

to it, as we scarify a wound in order to heal it? and admitting any

charm in grief, to make us in love with suffering, when we release

ourselves from it by putting an end to our being, do we not at that

instant incur all that we apprehend hereafter?

Reflect thoroughly, young man; what are ten, twenty, thirty years, in

competition with immorality? pain and pleasure pass like a shadow;

life slides away in an instant; it is nothing of itself; its value

depends on the use we make of it. The good that we have done is all

that remains, and it is that alone which marks its importance.

Therefore do not say any more that your existence is an evil, since it

depends upon yourself to make it a blessing; and if it is an evil to

have lived, this is an additional reason for prolonging life. Do not

pretend neither to say any more that you are at liberty to die; for it

is as much as to say that you have power to alter your nature, that

you have a right to revolt against the Author of your being, and to

frustrate the end of your existence. But when you add, that your death

does injury to no one, do you recollect that you make this declaration

to your friend?

Your death does injury to no one? I understand you! You think the loss

I shall sustain by your death of no importance, you deem my affliction

of no consequence. I will urge to you no more the rights of friendship

which you despise, but are there not obligations still more dear, [49]

which ought to induce you to preserve your life? If there is a person

in the world who loved you to that degree as to be unwilling to

survive you, and whose happiness depends on yours, do you think that

you have no obligations to her? will not the execution of your wicked

design disturb the peace of a mind, which has been, with such

difficulty, restored to its former innocence? are not you afraid to

add fresh torments to a heart of such sensibility? are not you

apprehensive lest your death should be attended with a loss more

fatal, which would deprive the world and virtue itself of its

brightest ornament? and if she should survive you, are not you afraid

to rouse up remorse in her bosom, which is more grievous to support

than life itself? Thou ungrateful friend, thou indelicate lover! wilt

thou always be taken up wholly with thyself? wilt thou always think on

thy own troubles alone? hast thou no regard for the happiness of one

who was so dear to thee? and cannot you resolve to live for her, who

was willing to die with you?

You talk of the duties of a magistrate, and of a father of a family;

and because you are not under those circumstances, you think yourself

absolutely free. And are you then under no obligations to society, to

whom you are indebted for your preservation, your talents, your

understanding: do you owe nothing to your native country, and to those

wretches who may need your assistance? O what an accurate calculation

you make! among the obligations you have enumerated, you have only

omitted those of a man and of a citizen. Where is the virtuous

patriot, who refused to enlist under a foreign prince, because his

blood ought not to be spilt but in the service of his country; and who

now, in a fit of despair, is ready to shed it against the express

prohibition of the laws? The laws, the laws, young man! did any wise

man ever despise them? Socrates, though innocent, out of regard to

them, refused to quit his prison. You do not scruple to violate them

by quitting life unjustly; and you ask, what injury do I?

You endeavour to justify yourself by example. You presume to mention

the Romans: you talk of the Romans! it becomes you indeed to cite

those illustrious names. Tell me, did Brutus die a lover in despair,

and did Cato tear out his entrails for his mistress? Thou weak and

abject man, what resemblance is there between Cato and thee? shew me

the common standard between that sublime soul and thine. Ah vain

wretch, hold thy peace! I am afraid to profane his name by a

vindication of his conduct. At that august and sacred name, every

friend to virtue should bow to the ground, and honour the memory of

the greatest hero in silence.

How ill you have selected your examples, and how meanly you judge of

the Romans, if you imagine that they thought themselves at liberty to

quit life so soon as it become a burthen to them. Recur to the

excellent days of that republic, and see whether you will find a

single citizen of virtue, who thus freed himself from the discharge of

his duty, even after the most cruel misfortunes. When Regulus was on

his return to Carthage, did he prevent the torments which he knew were

preparing for him, by destroying himself? What would not Posthumius

have given, when obliged to pass under the yoke at Caudium, had this

resource been justifiable? how much did even the senate admire that

effort of courage, which enabled the consul Varro to survive his

defeat? For what reason did so many generals voluntarily surrender

themselves to their enemies, they to whom ignominy was so dreadful,

and who were so little afraid of dying? It was because they considered

their blood, their life, and their latest breath, as devoted to their

country; and neither shame nor misfortune could dissuade them from

this sacred duty. But when the laws were subverted, and the state

became a prey to tyranny, the citizens resumed their natural liberty,

and the right they had over their own lives. When Rome was no more, it

was lawful for the Romans to give up their lives; they had discharged

their duties on earth, they had no longer any country to defend, they

were therefore at liberty to dispose of their lives, and to obtain

that freedom for themselves, which they could not recover for their

country. After having spent their days in the service of expiring

Rome, and in fighting for the defence of its laws, they died great and

virtuous as they had lived, and their death was an additional tribute

to the glory of the Roman name, since none of them beheld a sight

above all others most dishonourable, that of a true citizen stooping

to an usurper.

But thou, what art thou? what has thou done? dost thou think to excuse

thyself on account of thy obscurity? does thy weakness exempt thee

from thy duty, and because thou hast neither rank nor distinction in

thy country, art thou less subject to the laws? It becomes you vastly

to presume to talk of dying, while you owe the service of your life to

your equals? Know that a death such as you meditate, is shameful and

surreptitious. It is a theft committed on mankind in general. Before

you quit life, return the benefits you have received from every

individual. But, say you, I have no attachments. I am useless in the

world. O thou young philosopher! art thou ignorant that thou canst not

move a single step without finding some duty to fulfil; and that every

man is useful to society, even by means of his existence alone.

Hear me, thou rash young man! thou art dear to me. I commiserate thy

errors. If the least sense of virtue still remains in thy breast,

attend, and let me teach thee to be reconciled to life. Whenever thou

art tempted to quit it, say to thyself----“Let me at least do one good

action before I die.” Then go in search for one in a state of

indigence whom thou may’st relieve; for one under misfortunes, whom

thou may’st comfort; for one under oppression, whom thou may’st

defend. Introduce to me those unhappy wretches whom my rank keeps at a

distance. Do not be afraid of misusing my purse, or my credit: make

free with them; distribute my fortune, make me rich. If this

consideration restrains you to day, it will restrain you to-morrow; if

to-morrow, it will restrain you all your life. If it has no power to

restrain you, die! you are below my care.

Letter CXVI. From Lord B----.

I cannot, my dear friend, embrace you to-day as I was in hopes I

should, being detained two days longer at Kensington. It is the way of

the court to be very busy in doing nothing, and all affairs run in a

constant succession without being dispatched. The business which has

confined me here eight days, might have been concluded in two hours;

but as the chief concern of the ministry is to preserve an air of

business, they waste more time in putting me off, than it would cost

them to dispatch me. My impatience, which is rather too evident, does

not contribute to shorten the delay. You know that the court is not

suited to my turn; I find it more intolerable since we have lived

together, and I had rather a hundred times share your melancholy, than

be pestered with the knaves which abound in this country.

Nevertheless, in conversing with these busy sluggards, a thought

struck me with regard to you, and I only wait your consent to dispose

of you to advantage. I perceive that in struggling with your

affliction, you suffer both from your uneasiness of mind, and from

your resistance. If you are determined to live and overcome it, you

have formed this resolution less in conformity to the dictates of

reason and honour, than in compliance with your friends. But this is

not enough. You must recover the relish of life to discharge its

duties as you ought; for with so much indifference about every thing,

you will succeed in nothing. We may both of us talk as we will; but

reason alone will never restore you to your reason. It is necessity

that a multiplicity of new and striking objects should in some measure

withdraw you from that attention which your mind fixes solely on one

object of its affections. To recover yourself, you must be detached

from inward reflection, and nothing but the agitation of an active

life, can restore you to serenity.

An opportunity offers for this purpose, which is not to be

disregarded; a great and noble enterprise is on foot, and such an one

as has not been equalled for ages. It depends on you to be a spectator

and assistant in it. You will see the grandest sight which the eye of

man ever beheld, and your turn for observation will be abundantly

gratified. Your appointment will be honourable, and, with the talents

you are master of, will only require courage and good health. You will

find it attended with more danger than confinement, which will make it

more agreeable to you; and, in few words, your engagement will not be

for any long time. I cannot give you farther information at present;

because this scheme, which is almost ripe for discovery, is

nevertheless a secret with which I am not yet acquainted in all its

particulars. I will only add, that if you decline this lucky and

extraordinary opportunity, you will probably never recover it again,

and will regret it as long as you live.

I have ordered my servant, who is the bearer of this letter, to find

you out wherever you are, and not to return without a line; for the

affair requires dispatch, and I must give an answer before I leave

this place.

Letter CXVII. Answer.

Do, my lord; dispose of me; I will agree to whatever you propose. Till

I am worthy to serve you; at least I claim the merit of obeying you.

Letter CXVIII. From Lord B----.

Since you approve of the thought I suggested, I will not delay a

minute to acquaint you that every thing is concluded, and to explain

to you the nature of the engagement I have entered into, in pursuance

of the authority you gave me to make the agreement on your behalf.

You know that a squadron of five men of war is equipped at Plymouth,

and that they are ready to set sail. The commodore is Mr. George

Anson, a brave and experienced officer, and an old friend of mine. It

is destined for the South-sea, whither it is to sail through the

straits of Le Maire, and to come back by the East-Indies. You see

therefore that the object is no less than to make the tour of the

world, an expedition which, it is imagined, will take up three years.

I could have entered you as a volunteer; but to give you more

importance among the crew, I have obtained the addition of a title for

you, and you stand on the list in the capacity of engineer of the land

forces: this will be more suitable to you, because, having followed

the bent of your genius from your first outset in the world, I know

you made it your early study.

I propose to return to London tomorrow, [50] to present you to Mr.

Anson within two days. In the mean time, take care to get your

equipage ready, and provide yourself with books and instruments; for

the embarkation is ready, and only waits for sailing orders. My dear

friend, I hope that God will bring you back from this long voyage, in

full health of mind and body; and that at your return, we shall meet

never to part again.