ELOISA.

Letter CXXIV. From Mrs. Orbe.

_In which the preceding Letter was inclosed._

Welcome, welcome a thousand times, dear St. Preux! for I intend that

you shall retain that name, at least among us. I suppose it will be

sufficient to tell you, that you will not be excluded, unless you mean

to exclude yourself. When you find, by the inclosed letter, that I

have done more than you required of me, you will learn to put more

confidence in our friends, and not to reproach them on account of

those inquietudes which they participate when, compelled by reason,

they are under a necessity of making you uneasy. Mr. Wolmar has a

desire to see you, he makes you an offer of his house, his friendship,

and his advice; this is more than requisite to quiet my apprehensions

with regard to your journey, and I should injure myself, if I

mistrusted you one moment. Mr. Wolmar goes farther, he pretends to

accomplish your cure, and he says that neither Eloisa, you, nor I, can

be perfectly happy till it is compleat. Though I have great confidence

in his wisdom, and more in your virtue, yet I cannot answer for the

success of this undertaking. This I know, that considering the

disposition of his wife, the pains he proposes to take, is out of pure

generosity to you.

Come then, my worthy friend, in all the security of an honest heart,

and satisfy the eagerness with which we all long to embrace you, and

to see you easy and contented: come to your native land, and in the

midst of your friends, rest yourself after all your travels, and

forget all the hardships you have undergone. The last time you saw me,

I was a grave matron, and my friend was on the brink of the grave; but

now that she is well, and I am once more single, you will find me as

gay, and almost as handsome as ever. One thing however is very

certain, that I am not altered with respect to you, and you may travel

many times round the world, and not find one who has so sincere a

regard for you as your, &c.

Letter CXXV. To Lord B----.

Just risen from my bed: ’tis yet the dead of night. I cannot rest a

moment. My heart is so transported, that I can scarce confine it

within me. You, my Lord, who have so often rescued me from despair,

shall be the worthy confident of the first pleasure I have tasted for

many a year.

I have seen her, my Lord! My eyes have beheld her! I heard her voice.

I have prest her hand with my lips. She recollected me; she received

me with joy; she called me her friend, her dear friend; she admitted

me into her house: I am happier than ever I was in my life. I lodge

under the same roof with her, and while I am writing to you, we are

scarce thirty paces asunder.

My ideas are too rapid to be exprest; they crowd upon me all at once,

and naturally impede each other. I must pause a while to digest my

narrative into some kind of method.

After so long an absence, I had scarce given way to the first

transports of my heart, while I embraced you as my friend, my

deliverer, and my father, before you thought of taking a journey to

Italy. You made me wish for it, in hopes of relief from the burthen of

being useless to you. As you could not immediately dispatch the

affairs which detained you in London, you proposed my going first,

that I might have more time to wait for you here. I begged leave to

come hither; I obtained it, I set out, and though Eloisa made the

first advances towards an interview, yet the pleasing reflection that

I was going to meet her, was checked by the regret of leaving you. My

Lord, we are now even, this single sentiment has cancelled my

obligations to you.

I need not tell you that my thoughts were all the way taken up with

the object of my journey; but I must observe one thing, that I began

to consider that same object, which had never quitted my imagination,

quite in another point of view. till then I used to recall Eloisa to

my mind, sparkling, as formerly, with all the charms of youth. I had

always beheld her lovely eyes, enlivened by that passion with which

she inspired me. Every feature which I admired, seemed, in my opinion,

to be a surety of my happiness. My affection was so interwoven with

the idea of her person, that I could not separate them. Now I was

going to see Eloisa married, Eloisa a Mother, Eloisa indifferent! I

was disturbed, when I reflected how much an interval of eight years

might have impaired her beauty. She had had the small-pox; she was

altered; how great might that alteration be? My imagination

obstinately refused to allow any blemish in that lovely face. I

reflected likewise on the expected interview between us, and what kind

of reception I might expect. This first meeting presented itself to my

mind under a thousand different appearances, and this momentary idea

came athwart my imagination a thousand times a day.

When I perceived the top of the hills, my heart beat violently, and

told me, There she is! I was affected in the same manner at sea, on

viewing the coast of Europe. I felt the same emotions at Meillerie,

when I discovered the house of the Baron D’Etange. The world, in my

imagination, is divided only into two regions, _that_ where she is,

and _that_ where she is not. The former dilates as I remove from her,

and contracts when I approach her, as a spot where I am destined never

to arrive. It is at present confined to the walls of her chamber.

Alas! that place alone is inhabited; all the rest of the universe is

an empty space.

The nearer I drew to Switzerland, the more I was agitated. That

instant in which I discovered the lake of Geneva from the heights of

Jura, was a moment of rapture and extasy. The light of my country,

that beloved country, where a deluge of pleasures had overflowed my

heart; the pure and wholesome air of the Alps; the gentle breeze of

the country, more sweet than the perfumes of the East; that rich and

fertile spot, that unrivalled landskip, the most beautiful that ever

struck the eye of man; that delightful abode, to which I found nothing

comparable in the vast tour of the globe; the aspect of a free and

happy people; the mildness of the season, the serenity of the climate;

a thousand pleasing recollections, which recalled to my mind the

pleasures I had enjoyed: all these circumstances together threw me

into a kind of transport which I cannot describe, and seemed to

collect the enjoyment of my whole life into one happy moment. Having

crossed the lake, I felt a new impression, of which I had no idea. It

was a certain emotion of fear, which checked my heart, and disturbed

me in spite of all my endeavours. This dread, of which I could not

discover the cause, increased as I drew nearer to the town; it abated

my eagerness to get thither, and rose to such a degree, that my

expedition gave me as much uneasiness as my delay had occasioned me

before. When I came to Vevey, I felt a sensation which was very far

from being agreeable. I was seized with a violent palpitation, which

stopped my breath, and I spoke with a trembling and broken accent. I

could scarce make myself understood when I enquired for Mr. Wolmar;

for I durst not mention his wife. They told me he lived at Clarens.

This information eased my breast from a pressure equal to five hundred

weight, and considering the two leagues I had to travel farther as a

kind of respite, I was rejoiced at a circumstance which at any other

time would have made me uneasy; but I learnt with concern that Mrs.

Orbe was at Lausanne. I went into an inn to recruit my strength, but I

could not swallow a morsel: when I attempted to drink I was almost

suffocated, and could not empty a glass but at several sips. When I

saw the horses put to, my apprehensions were doubled. I believe I

should have given any thing in the world to have had one of the wheels

broken by the way. I no longer saw Eloisa; my disturbed imagination

presented nothing but confused objects before me; my soul was in a

general tumult. I had experienced grief and despair, and should have

preferred them to that horrible state. In a few words, I can assure

you, that I never in my life underwent such cruel agitation as I

suffered in this little way, and I am persuaded that I could not have

supported it a whole day.

When I arrived, I ordered the chaise to stop at the gate, and finding

that I was not in a condition to walk, I sent the postillion to

acquaint Mr. Wolmar that a stranger wanted to speak with him. He was

taking a walk with his wife. They were acquainted with the message,

and came round another way, while I kept my eyes fixed on the avenue,

and waited, in a kind of trance, in expectation of seeing somebody

come from thence.

Eloisa had no sooner perceived me than she recollected me. In an

instant, she saw me, she shrieked, she ran, she leaped into my arms.

At the sound of her voice I started, I revived, I saw her, I felt her.

O my Lord! O my friend!... I cannot speak... Her look, her shriek, her

manner inspired me with confidence, courage, and strength, in an

instant. In her arms I felt warmth, and breathed new life. A sacred

transport kept us for some time closely embraced in deep silence; and

it was not till after we recovered from this agreeable delirium, that

our voices broke forth in confused murmurs, and our eyes intermingled

tears. Mr. Wolmar was present; I knew he was, I saw him: but what was

I capable of seeing? No, though the whole universe had been united

against me; though a thousand torments had surrounded me, I would not

have detached my heart from the least of those caresses, those tender

offerings of a pure and sacred friendship, which we will bear with us

to heaven!

When the violent impetuosity of our first meeting began to abate, Mrs.

Wolmar took me by the hand, and turning towards her husband, she said

to him, with a certain air of candor and innocence which instantly

affected me, Tho’ he is my old acquaintance, I do not present him to

you, but I receive him from you, and he will hereafter enjoy my

friendship no longer than he is honoured with yours----If new

friends, said Mr. Wolmar, embracing me, express less natural ardor

than those of long standing, yet they will grow old in their turn, and

will not yield to any in affection. I received his embraces; but my

heart had quite exhausted itself, and I was entirely passive.

After this short scene was over, I observed, by a side-glance, that

they had put up my chaise, and taken off my trunk. Eloisa held by my

arm, and I went with them towards the house, almost overwhelmed with

pleasure, to find they were determined I should remain their guest.

It was then that, upon a more calm contemplation of that lovely face,

which I imagined might have grown homely, I saw with an agreeable, yet

sad surprize, that she was really more beautiful and sparkling than

ever. Her charming features are now more regular; she is grown rather

fatter, which is an addition to the resplendent fairness of her

complexion. The small-pox has left some slight marks on her cheeks

scarce perceptible. Instead of that mortifying bashfulness which

formerly used to make her cast her eyes downwards, you may perceive in

her chaste looks, the security of virtue allied with gentleness and

sensibility; her countenance, tho’ not less modest, is less timid; an

air of greater freedom, and more liberal grace, has succeeded that

constrained carriage which was compounded of shame and tenderness; and

if a sense of her failing rendered her then more bewitching, a

consciousness of her purity now renders her more celestial.

We had scarce entered the parlour, when she disappeared, and returned

in a minute. She did not come alone. Who do you think she brought with

her? Her children! Those two lovely little ones, more beauteous than

the day; in whose infant faces you might trace all the charms and

features of their mother. How was I agitated at this sight? It is

neither to be described nor conceived. A thousand different emotions

seized me at once. A thousand cruel and delightful reflections divided

my heart. What a lovely sight! What bitter regrets! I found myself

distracted with grief, and transported with joy. I saw, if I may be

allowed the expression, the dear object of my affections multiplied

before me. Alas! I perceived at the same time too convincing a proof

that I had no longer any interest in her, and my losses seemed to be

multiplied with her increase.

She led them towards me. Behold, said she, with an affecting tone that

pierced my soul, behold the children of your friend: they will

hereafter be your friends. Henceforward I hope you will be theirs. And

immediately the two little creatures ran eagerly to me, took me by the

hand, and so overwhelmed me with their innocent caresses, that every

emotion of my soul centered in tenderness. I took them both in my

arms, and pressing them against my throbbing breast, Dear and lovely

little souls, said I, with a sigh, you have an arduous task to

perform. May you resemble the authors of your being; may you imitate

their virtues; and by your own hereafter, administer comfort to their

unfortunate friends. Mrs. Wolmar, in rapture threw herself round my

neck a second time, and seemed disposed to repay me, by _her_

embraces, those caresses which _I_ had bestowed on her two sons. But

how different was this from our first embrace! I perceived the

difference with astonishment. It was the mother of a family whom I now

embraced; I saw her surrounded by her husband and children: and the

scene struck me with awe. I discovered an air of dignity in her

countenance, which had not affected me till now: I found myself

obliged to pay her a different kind of respect; her familiarity was

almost uneasy to me; lovely as she appeared to me, I could have kissed

the hem of her garment, with a better grace than I saluted her cheek.

In a word, from that moment, I perceived that either she or I were no

longer the same, and I began in earnest to have a good opinion of

myself.

Mr. Wolmar at length took me by the hand, and conducted me to the

apartment which had been prepared for me. This, said he, as he

entered, is your apartment: it is not destined to the use of a

stranger; it shall never belong to another, and hereafter, if you do

not occupy it, it shall remain empty. You may judge whether such a

compliment was not agreeable to me; but as I had not yet deserved it,

I could not hear it without confusion. Mr. Wolmar, however, spared me

the trouble of an answer. He invited me to take a turn in the garden.

His behaviour there was such as made me less reserved, and assuming

the air of a man who was well acquainted with my former indiscretions,

but who entirely confided in my integrity, he conversed with me as a

father would speak to his child; and by conciliating my esteem, made

it impossible for me ever to deceive him. No, my Lord, he is not

mistaken in me; I shall never forget that it is incumbent on me to

justify his and your good opinion. But why should my heart reject his

favours? Why should the man whom I am bound to love be the husband of

Eloisa?

That day seemed defined to put me to every kind of proof which I could

possibly undergo. After we had joined Mrs. Wolmar, her husband was

called away to give some necessary orders, and I was left alone with

her.

I then found myself involved in fresh perplexity, more painful and

more unexpected than any which I had yet experienced. What should I

say to her? How could I address her? Should I presume to remind her of

our former connections, and of those times which were so recent in my

memory? Should I suffer her to conclude that I had forgot them, or

that I no longer regarded them? Think what a punishment it must be to

treat the object nearest your heart as a stranger! What infamy, on the

other hand, to abuse hospitality so far as to entertain her with

discourse to which she could not now listen with decency? Under these

various perplexities I could not keep my countenance; my colour went

and came; I durst not speak, nor lift up my eyes, nor make the least

motion; and I believe that I should have remained in this uneasy

situation till her husband’s return, if she had not relieved me. For

her part, this _tete a tete_ did not seem to embarrass her in the

least. She preserved the same manner and deportment as before, and

continued to talk to me with the same freedom; the only, as I

imagined, endeavoured to affect more ease and gaiety, tempered with a

look, not timid or tender, but soft and affectionate, as if she meant

to encourage me to recover my spirits, and lay aside a reserve which

she could not but perceive.

She talked to me of my long voyages; she enquired into particulars;

into those especially which related to the dangers I had escaped, and

the hardships I had endured: for she was sensible, she said, that she

was bound in friendship to make me some reparation. Ah, Eloisa! said

I, in a plaintive accent, I have enjoyed your company but for a

moment; would you send me back to the Indies already? No, she

answered, with a smile, but I would go thither in my turn.

I told her that I had given you a detail of my voyage, of which I had

brought her a copy for her perusal. She then enquired after you with

great eagerness. I gave her an account of you, which I could not do

without recounting the troubles I had undergone, and the uneasiness I

had occasioned you. She was affected; she began to enter into her own

justification in a more serious tone, and to convince me that it was

her duty to act as she had done. Mr. Wolmar joined us in the middle of

her discourse, and what confounded me was, that she proceeded in the

same manner as if he had not been there. He could not forbear smiling,

on discovering my astonishment. After she concluded, You see, said he,

an instance of the sincerity which reigns in this house. If you mean

to be virtuous, learn to copy it: it is the only request I have to

make, and the only lesson I would teach you. The first step towards

vice, is to make a mystery of actions innocent in themselves, and

whoever is fond of disguise, will sooner or later have reason to

conceal himself. One moral precept may supply the place of all the

rest, which is this: neither to say or do any thing, which you would

not have all the world see and hear. For my part, I have always

esteemed that Roman, above all other men, who wished that his house

was built in such manner, that the world might see all his

transactions.

I have two proposals, he continued, to make to you. chuse freely that

which you like best; but accept either one or the other. Then taking

his wife’s hand and mine, and closing them together, he said, Our

friendship commences from this moment; this forms the dear connection,

and may it be indissoluble. Embrace her as your sister and your

friend; treat her as such constantly; the more familiar you are with

her, the better I shall esteem you: but behave, when _tete a tete_, as

if I was present; or in my presence, as if I was absent. This is all I

desire. If you prefer the latter, you may chuse it without any

inconvenience; for as I reserve to myself the right of intimating to

you any thing which displeases me, so long as I am silent in that

respect, you may be certain that I am not offended.

I should have been greatly embarrassed by this discourse two hours

before, but Mr. Wolmar began to gain such an ascendancy over me, that

his authority already grew somewhat familiar to me. We all three

entered once more into indifferent conversation, and every time I

spoke to Eloisa, I did not fail to address her by the stile of

_Madam_. Tell me sincerely, said her husband at last, interrupting me,

in your _tete a tete_ party just now, did you call her _Madam?_ No,

answered I, somewhat disconcerted, but politeness... Such politeness,

he replied, is nothing but the mask of vice; where virtue maintains

its empire, it is unnecessary; and I discard it. Call my wife _Eloisa_

in my presence, or _Madam_ when you are alone; it is indifferent to

me. I began to know what kind of man I had to deal with, and I

resolved always to keep my mind in such a state as to bear his

examination.

My body drooping with fatigue, stood in need of refreshment, and my

spirits required rest; I found both one and the other at table. After

so many years absence and vexation, after such tedious voyages, I said

to myself, in a kind of rapture, I am in company with Eloisa, I see

her, I talk with her; I sit at table with her, she views me without

inquietude, and entertains me without apprehensions. Nothing

interrupts our mutual satisfaction. Gentle and precious innocence, I

never before relished thy charms, and to-day, for the first time, my

existence ceases to be painful.

At night, when I retired to rest, I passed by their chamber; I saw

them go in together; I proceeded to my own in a melancholy mood, and

this moment was the least agreeable to me of any I that day

experienced.

Such, my Lord, were the occurrences of this first interview, so

passionately wished for, and so dreadfully apprehended. I have

endeavoured to collect myself since I have been alone; I have

compelled myself to self-examination; but as I am not yet recovered

from the agitation of the preceding day, it is impossible for me to

judge of the true state of my mind. All that I know for certain, is,

that if the nature of my affection for her is not changed, at least

the mode of it is altered, for I am always anxious to have a third

person between us, and I now dread being alone with her, as much as I

longed for it formerly.

I intend to go to Lausanne in two or three days. I have seen Eloisa

but half, not having seen her cousin; that dear and amiable friend, to

whom I am so much indebted, and who will always share my friendship,

my services, my gratitude, and all the affections of my soul. On my

return I will take the first opportunity to give you a farther

account. I have need of your advice, and I shall keep a strict eye

over my conduct. I know my duty, and will discharge it. However

agreeable it may be to fix my residence in this house, I am

determined, I have sworn, that when I grow too fond of my abode, I

will quit it immediately.

Letter CXXVI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we

desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend

before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and

wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines

him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was

fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon;

and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long

time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to

let him see the _inseparables_ asunder.

In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my

mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have

opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him,

I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has

banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my

attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause

of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I

feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less

dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a

different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those

which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and

the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion

to their vivacity.

With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he

nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should

formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be

changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms

of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine

from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment

and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen

him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the

secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an

air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once

very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at

present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to

honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments

with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of

virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of

injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in

itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an

honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that

approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only

in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that

dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their

closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has

observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general

propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in

general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that

he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much

more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.

His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse;

his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has

contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the

better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he

was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour.

He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose

discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he

has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the

dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black

as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must

own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch

myself looking at them very often in spite of me.

I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is

not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is

natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if

this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former

eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the

motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view

each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other

alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were,

when it is the other’s turn, and looks a different way to give the

other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt,

yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired

the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the

purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to

justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by

passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our

former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I

feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of

my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these

sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to

perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the

symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe,

that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I

perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn

will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah!

if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew

what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that

I am still dear to him.

What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him,

is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes,

from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage.

He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating

himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for

my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a

man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in

his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of

our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the

present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and

that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little

suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The

less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend;

I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should load me with

caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet

another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease

all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I,

it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never

resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though

it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I

saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource,

and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite

on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there

is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the

opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no

symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural

aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot

inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of

the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will

however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly

convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from

looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he

would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.

Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think

that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind

intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into

all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure

in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and

if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.

P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with

respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence

Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend’s unexpected

return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured

to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably

conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected

by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he

has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to

have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he

meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession

cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an

impression such a conduct must make!

As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come

hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could

contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my

confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not

communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to

him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it

was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him.

You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle;

if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might

read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single

word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me,

and had not the civility to read it.

I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had

doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most

open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he,

that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I

owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew

him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather

that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me.

Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he,

is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication

which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily

contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be

reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for

that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident,

which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though

nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate,

yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a

restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by

being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of

friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be.

There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to

participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may

impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do

not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these

distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be

addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from

restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own

interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive

that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy

of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the

pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your

husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most

private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa!

Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness,

why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you,

and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?

My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man

behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty,

he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he

teaches me to deserve it.

Letter CXXVII. Answer.

Impossible! our traveller returned, and have I not yet seen him at my

feet, loaded with the spoils of America? But it is not him, I assure

you, whom I accuse of this delay; for I am sensible it is as grievous

to him as to me: but I find that he has not so thoroughly forgotten

his former state of servility as you pretend, and I complain less of

his neglect, than of your tyranny. It is very droll in you indeed, to

desire such a prude as I am, to make the first advances, and run to

salute a swarthy pockfretten face, which has passed four times under

the line. But you make me smile to see you in such haste to scold, for

fear I should begin first. I should be glad to know what pretence you

have to make such an attempt? Quarrelling is my talent. I take

pleasure in it, I acquit myself to a miracle, and it becomes me well;

but you, my dear cousin, are a mere novice at this work. If you did

but know how graceful you appear in the act of confession, how lovely

you look with a supplicating eye, and an air of confusion, instead of

scolding you would spend your days in asking pardon, were it only out

of coquetry.

For the present, you must ask my pardon in every respect. A fine

project truly, to chuse a husband for a confident, and a most

obliging precaution indeed for a friendship so sacred as ours! Thou

faithless friend, and pusillanimous woman! On whom can you depend, if

you mistrust yourself and me? Can you, without offence to both,

considering the sacred tie under which you live, suspect your own

inclinations and my indulgence? I am amazed that the very idea of

admitting a third person into the tittle tattle secrets of two women,

did not disgust you! As for my part, I love to prattle with you at my

ease, but if I thought that the eye of man ever pried into my letters,

I should no longer have any pleasure in corresponding with you; such a

reserve would insensibly introduce a coldness between us, and we

should have no more regard for each other than two indifferent women.

To what inconveniences your silly distrust would have exposed us, if

your husband had not been wiser than you!

He acted very discreetly in not reading your letter. Perhaps he would

have been less satisfied with it than you imagine, and less than I am

myself, who am better capable of judging of your present condition, by

the fate in which I have seen you formerly. All those contemplative

sages who have passed their lives in the study of the human heart, are

less acquainted with the real symptoms of love, than the most shallow

woman, if she has any sensibility. Mr. Wolmar would immediately have

observed that our friend was the subject of your whole letter, and he

would not have seen the postscript, in which you do not once mention

him. If you had written this postscript ten years ago, my dear, I

cannot tell how you would have managed, but your friend would

certainly have been crowded into some corner, especially as there was

no husband to overlook it.

Mr. Wolmar would have observed farther with what attention you

examined his guest, and the pleasure you take in describing his

person; but he might devour Plato and Aristotle, before he would know

that we _look at_ a lover, but do not _examine_ him. All examination

requires a degree of indifference, which we never feel when we behold

the object of our passion.

In short, he would imagine that all the alterations you remark might

have escaped another, and I on the contrary was afraid of finding that

they had escaped you. However your guest may be altered from what he

was, he would appear the same, if your affections were not altered.

You turn away your eyes whenever he looks at you; this is a very good

symptom. You _turn them away_, cousin? You do not now _cast them

down_? Surely you have not mistaken one word for another. Do you think

that our philosopher would have perceived this distinction?

There is another circumstance very likely to disturb a husband; it is

a kind of tenderness and affection which still remains in your stile,

when you speak of the object who was once so dear to you. One who

reads your letters, or hears you speak, ought to be well acquainted

with you, not to be mistaken with regard to your sentiments; he ought

to know that it is only a friend to whom you are speaking, or that,

you speak in the same manner of all your friends; but as to that, it

is the natural effect of your disposition, with which your husband is

too well acquainted to be alarmed. How is it possible but that, in a

mind of such tenderness, pure friendship will bear some resemblance to

love? Pray observe, my dear cousin, that all I say to you on this head

ought to inspire you with fresh courage: your conduct is discreet, and

that is a great deal; I used to trust only to your virtue, but I

begin now to rely on your reason; I consider your cure at present,

though not perfect, yet as easily accomplished, and you have now made

a sufficient progress, to render you inexcusable if you do not

compleat it.

Before I came to your postscript, I remarked the passage which you had

the sincerity not to suppress or alter, though conscious that it would

be open to your husband’s inspection. I am certain, that if he had

read it, it would, if possible, have doubled his esteem for you;

nevertheless it would have given him no great pleasure. Upon the

whole, your letter was very well calculated to make him place an

entire confidence in your conduct, but at the same time it tended to

give him uneasiness with respect to your inclinations. I own those

marks of the small-pox, which you view so much, give me some

apprehensions; love never yet contrived a more dangerous disguise. I

know that this would be of no consequence to any other; but always

remember, Eloisa, that she who was not to be reduced by the youth and

fine figure of her lover, was lost when she reflected on the

sufferings he had endured for her. Providence no doubt intended that

he should retain the marks of that distemper, to exercise your virtue,

and that you should be free from them, in order to put his to the

proof.

I come now to the principal subject of your letter; you know that on

the receipt of our friend’s, I flew to you immediately; it was a

matter of importance. But at present, if you knew in what difficulties

that short absence has involved me, and how many things I have to do

at once, you would be sensible how impossible it is for me to leave my

house again, without exposing myself to fresh inconveniencies, and

putting myself under a necessity of passing the winter here again,

which is neither for your interest or mine. Is it not better to

deprive ourselves of the pleasure of a hasty interview of two or three

days, that we may be together for six months. I imagine likewise that

it would not be improper for me to have a little particular and

private conversation with our philosopher: partly to found his

inclinations and confirm his mind; partly to give him some useful

advice with regard to the conduct he should observe towards your

husband, and even towards you; for I do not suppose that you can talk

to him with freedom on that subject, and I can perceive, even from

your letter, that he has need of council. We have been so long used to

govern him, that we are in conscience responsible for his behaviour;

and till he has regained the free use of his reason, we must supply

the deficiency. For my own part, it is a charge I shall always

undertake with pleasure; for he has paid such deference to my advice

as I shall never forget, and since my husband is no more, there is not

a man in the world whom I esteem and love so much as himself. I have

likewise reserved for him the pleasure of doing me some little

services here. I have a great many papers in confusion, which he will

help me to regulate, and I have some troublesome affairs in hand in

which I shall have occasion for his diligence and understanding. As to

the rest, I do not propose to detain him above five or six days at

most, and perhaps I may send him to you the next day. For I have too

much vanity to wait till he is seized with impatience to return, and I

have too much discernment to be deceived in that case.

Do not fail therefore as soon as he is recovered, to send him to me;

that is, to let him come, or I shall give over all raillery. You know

very well that if I laugh whilst I cry, and yet am not the less in

affliction, so I laugh likewise at the same time that I scold, and yet

am not the less in a passion. If you are discreet, and do things with

a good grace, I promise you that I will send him back to you with a

pretty little present, which will give you pleasure, and a great deal

of pleasure; but if you suffer me to languish with impatience, I

assure you that you shall have nothing.

P.S. A propos; tell me, does our seaman smoak? does he swear? does he

drink brandy? Does he wear a great cutlass? has he the look of a

Buccaneer? O how I long to see what sort of an air a man has who comes

from the Antipodes!

Letter CXXVIII. Clara to Eloisa.

Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these

eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he

seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him

still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him

till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so

soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so

scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have

sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains

servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this

instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without

knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more

disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.

But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently?

First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that

circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved

me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business;

a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have

probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he

talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this

conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will

find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account.

But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of

talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint

in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least

indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments,

minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their

duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may

indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea

when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having

entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of

innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of

reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may

be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of

his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time

in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled

the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to

my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion----Without

doubt, he embellished them!

He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what

he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that

I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident

as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but

that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that

susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though

not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have

long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you

with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of

you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible

recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is

difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he

should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him,

carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him

with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I

believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least,

that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the

idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than

his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice

to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail

concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the

future.

With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no

more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I

intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I

even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen

on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so

much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to

swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part

with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it.

It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost

stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have

left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that

it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe

me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the

picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his

punishment.

After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so

composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found

that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system,

and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the

service of Lord B----. I could not but approve such honourable

intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that

gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that

you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden

thought strikes me. From your husband’s singular conduct, and other

symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend,

which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to

his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves

that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be

for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon

pains.

You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners,

which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should

have imagined. But don’t you find that his continued anxieties have

rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be?

Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him

tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which

people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of

trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under

different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of

this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not

discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he

expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his

heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of

comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never

once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed

my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me

with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he

entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion

in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out,

before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been

fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would

have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with

the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground

yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom

of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the

morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how

I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his

hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.

[52] At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he

always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like

a _fine gentleman_; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink

my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he

stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with

us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me

one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same

manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our

philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he

takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot

do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to

reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the

better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care

of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the

pleasure of plaguing all day long.

Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send

you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received

it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what

reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this

present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I

promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this,

she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in

two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more

sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me

wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is

wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I

give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal

authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon

yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking:

henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your

daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another

Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to

her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you

have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of

encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs

of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears

to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can’t

be any longer without her little M----, and that it is partly for that

reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which

made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me

without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long,

and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid,

and who answer her, _No_, twenty times a day; you, by way of

excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and

whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told

her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you

may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to

send me little M---- in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her.

She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I

told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot,

said I, won’t you give up your little M---- to me? No, said she,

somewhat coldly. No? But if I won’t give him up neither, who shall

settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I

shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire.

Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what’s right! And do you think I

should desire what’s wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But

after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me

little M----? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for

me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me

honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma,

but he is too young for you... This from a child but seven years old

...

I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette,

said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for

you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed.

Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make

him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then,

mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you

are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I

will be foolishly fond of him, that’s all.

I know you don’t approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will

soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it

delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter

is already in love with her little M----, and that if he is two years

younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may

claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your

example and my own to that of your poor mother’s, that where the woman

governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend;

farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the

vintage shall not be gathered without me.

Letter CXXIX. To Lord B----.

What pleasures, too late enjoy’d, (alas, enjoy’d too late) have I

tasted these three weeks past! How delightful to pass one day in the

bosom of calm friendship, secure from the tempests of impetuous

passion! What a pleasing and affecting scene, my Lord, is a plain and

well-regulated family, where order, peace, and innocence reign

throughout; where, without pomp or retinue, everything is assembled,

which can contribute to the real felicity of mankind! The country, the

retirement, the season, the vast body of water which opens to my view,

the wild prospect of the mountains, everything conspires to recall to

my mind the delightful island of Tinian. I flatter myself that the

earnest prayers, which I there so often repeated, are now

accomplished. I live here agreeably to my taste, and enjoy society

suitable to my liking. I only want the company of two persons to

compleat my happiness, and I hope to see them here soon.

In the mean time, till you and Mrs. Orbe come to perfect those

charming and innocent pleasures, which I begin to relish here, I will

endeavour, by way of detail, to give you an idea of that domestic

economy, which proclaims the happiness of the master and mistress, and

communicates their felicity to every one under their roof. I hope that

my reflections may one day be of use to you, with respect to the

project you have in view, and this hope encourages me to pursue them.

I need not give you a description of Clarens house. You know it. You

can tell how delightful it is, what interesting recollections it

presents to my mind; you can judge how dear it must be to me, both on

account of the present scenes it exhibits, and of those which it

recalls to my mind. Mrs. Wolmar, with good reason, prefers this abode

to that of Etange, a superb and magnificent castle, but old,

inconvenient, and gloomy, its situation being far inferior to the

country round Clarens.

Since Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have fixed their residence here, they have

converted to use every thing which served only for ornament: it is no

longer a house for shew, but for convenience. They have shut up a long

sweep of rooms, to alter the inconvenient situation of the doors; they

have cut off some over-sized rooms, that the apartments might be

better distributed. Instead of rich and antique furniture, they have

substituted what is neat and convenient. Every thing here is pleasant

and agreeable; every thing breathes an air of plenty and propriety,

without any appearance of pomp and luxury. There is not a single room,

in which you do not immediately recollect that you are in the country,

but in which, nevertheless, you will find all the conveniences you

meet with in town. The same alterations are observable without doors.

The yard has been enlarged at the expense of the coach-houses. Instead

of an old tattered billiard-table, they have made a fine press, and

the spot which used to be filled with screaming peacocks, which they

have parted with, is converted into a dairy. The kitchen-garden was

too small for the kitchen; they have made another out of a flower

garden, but so convenient and so well laid out, that the spot, thus

transformed, looks more agreeable to the eye than before. Instead of

the mournful yews which covered the wall, they have planted good

fruit-trees. In the room of the useless Indian _black-berry_, fine

young mulberry-trees now begin to shade the yard, and they have

planted two rows of walnut-trees quite to the road, in the place of

some old linden trees which bordered the avenue. They have throughout

substituted the useful in the room of the agreeable, and yet the

agreeable has gained by the alteration. For my own part, at least, I

think that the noise of the yard, the crowing of the cocks, the lowing

of the cattle, the harness of the carts, the rural repasts, the return

of the husband-men, and all the train of rustic economy, give the

house a more rural, more lively, animated and gay appearance, than it

had in its former state of mournful dignity.

Their estate is not out upon lease, but they are their own farmers,

and the cultivation of it employs a great deal of their time, and

makes a great part both of their pleasure and profit. The manor of

Etange is nothing but meadow, pasture and wood: but the produce of

Clarens consists of vineyards, which are considerable objects, and in

which, the difference of culture produces more sensible effects than

in corn; which is a farther reason why, in point of economy, they

should prefer the latter as a place of residence. Nevertheless, they

generally go to Etange every year at harvest time, and Mr. Wolmar

visits it frequently. It is a maxim with them, to cultivate their

lands to the utmost they will produce, not for the sake of

extraordinary profit, but as a means of employing more hands. Mr.

Wolmar maintains that the produce of the earth is in proportion to the

number of hands employed; the better it is tilled, the more it yields;

and the surplus of its produce furnishes the means of cultivating it

still farther; the more it is stocked with men and cattle, the greater

abundance it yields for their support. No one can tell, says he, where

this continual and reciprocal increase of produce and of labour may

end. On the contrary, land neglected loses its fertility; the less men

a country produces, the less provisions it furnishes. The scarcity of

inhabitants is the reason why it is insufficient to maintain the few

it has, and in every country which tends to depopulation, the people

will sooner or later die of famine.

Therefore having a great deal of land, which they cultivate with the

utmost industry, they require, besides the servants in the yard, a

great number of day labourers, which procures them the pleasure of

maintaining a great number of people without any inconvenience to

themselves. In the choice of their labourers, they always prefer

neighbours and those of the same place, to strangers and foreigners.

Though by this means they may sometimes be losers in not choosing the

most robust, yet this loss is soon made up by the affection which this

preference inspires in those whom they chuse, by the advantage

likewise of having them always about them, and of being able to depend

on them at all times, though they keep them in pay but part of the

year.

They always make two prices with these labourers. One is a strict

payment of right, the current price of the country, which they engage

to pay them when they hire them. The other, which is more liberal, is

a payment of generosity; it is bestowed only as they are found to

deserve it, and it seldom happens that they do not earn the surplus:

for Mr. Wolmar is just and strict, and never suffers institutions of

grace and favour to degenerate into custom and abuse. Over these

labourers there are overseers, who watch and encourage them. These

overseers work along with the rest; and are interested in their

labour, by a little augmentation which is made to their wages, for

every advantage that is reaped from their industry. Besides, Mr.

Wolmar visits them almost every day himself, sometimes often in a day,

and his wife loves to take these walks with him. In times of

extraordinary business, Eloisa every week bestows some little

gratifications to such of the labourers, or other servants, as, in the

judgment of their master, shall have been most industrious for eight

days past. All these means of promoting emulation, though seemingly

expensive, when used with justice and discretion, insensibly make

people laborious and diligent, and in the end bring in more than is

disbursed; but as they turn to no profit, but by time and

perseverance, few people know any thing of them, or are willing to

make use of them.

But the most effectual method of all, which is peculiar to Mrs.

Wolmar, and which they who are bent on economy seldom think of, is

that of gaining the hearts of those good people, by making them the

objects of her affection. She does not think it sufficient to reward

their industry, by giving them money, but she thinks herself bound to

do farther services to those who have contributed to hers. Labourers,

domestics, all who serve her, if it be but for a day, become her

children; she takes part in their pleasures, their cares, and their

fortune; she inquires into their affairs, and makes their interests

her own; she engages in a thousand concerns for them, she gives them

her advice, she composes their differences, and does not shew the

affability of her disposition in smooth and fruitless speeches, but in

real services, and continual acts of benevolence. They, on their

parts, leave everything to serve her, on the least motion. They fly

when she speaks to them; her look alone animates their zeal; in her

presence they are contented; in her absence they talk of her, and are

eager to be employed. Her charms, and her manner of conversing do a

great deal, but her gentleness and her virtues do more. Ah! my Lord,

what a powerful and adorable empire is that of benevolent beauty!

With respect to their personal attendants, they have within doors

eight servants, three women and five men, without reckoning the

baron’s valet de chambre, or the servants in the out-houses. It seldom

happens that people, who have but few domestics, are ill served; but,

from the uncommon zeal of these servants, one would conclude that

each thought himself charged with the business of the other seven, and

from the harmony among them, one would imagine that the whole business

was done by one man. You never see them in the out-houses idle and

unemployed, or playing in the court-yard, but always about some useful

employment; they help in the yard, in the cellar, and in the kitchen;

The gardener has nobody under him but them, and what is most

agreeable, you see them do all this chearfully and with pleasure.

They take them young, in order to form them to their minds. They do

not follow the maxim here, which prevails at Paris and London, of

choosing domestics ready formed, that is to say, compleat rascals,

runners of quality, who in every family they go through, catch the

failings both of master and man, and make a trade of serving every

body, without being attached to any one. There can be neither honesty,

fidelity, or zeal among such fellows, and this collection of rabble

serves to ruin the masters and corrupt the children in all wealthy

families. Here, the choice of domestics is considered as an article of

importance. They do not regard them merely as mercenaries, from whom

they only require a stipulated service, but as members of a family,

which, should they be ill chosen, might be ruined by that means. The

first thing they require of them is to be honest, the next is to love

their master, and the third to serve him to his liking; but where a

master is reasonable, and servant intelligent, the third is the

consequence of the two first. Therefore they do not take them from

town, but from the country. This is the first place they live in, and

it will assuredly be the last if they are good for any thing. They

take them out of some numerous family overstocked with children, whose

parents come to offer them of their own accord. They chuse them

young, well made, healthy, and of a pleasant countenance. Mr. Wolmar

interrogates and examines them, and then presents them to his wife. If

they prove agreeable to both, they are received at first upon trial,

afterwards they are admitted among the number of servants, or more

properly the children of the family, and they employ some days in

teaching their duty with a great deal of care and patience. The

service is so simple, so equal and uniform, the master and mistress

are so little subject to whims and caprice, and the servants so soon

conceive an affection for them, that their business is soon learned.

Their condition is agreeable; they find conveniences which they had

not at home; but they are not suffered to be enervated by idleness,

the parent of all vice. They do not allow them to become gentlemen,

and to grow proud in their service. They continue to work as they did

with their own family; in fact, they do but change their father and

mother, and get more wealthy parents. They do not therefore hold their

old rustic employments in contempt. Whenever they leave this place,

there is not one of them who had not rather turn peasant, than take

any other employment. In short, I never saw a family, where every one

acquits himself so well in his service, and thinks so little of the

trouble of servitude.

Thus by training up their servants themselves, in this discreet

manner, they guard against the objection which is so very trifling,

and so frequently made, viz. “I shall only bring them up for the

service of others.” Train them properly, one might answer, and they

will never serve any one else. If in bringing them up, you solely

regard your own benefit, they have a right to consult their own

interest in quitting you; but if you seem to consider their advantage,

they will remain constantly attached to you. It is the intention alone

which constitutes the obligation, and he who is indirectly benefited

by an act of kindness, wherein I meant to serve my self only, owes me

no obligation whatever.

As a double preventive against this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar

take another method, which appears to me extremely prudent. At the

first establishment of their houshold, they calculated what number of

servants their fortune would allow them to keep, and they found it to

amount to fifteen or sixteen; in order to be better served they made a

reduction of half that number; so that with less retinue, their

service is more exactly attended. To be more effectually served still,

they have made it the interest of their servants to continue with them

a long time. When a domestic first enters into their service, he

receives the common wages; but those wages are augmented every year by

a twentieth part: so that at the end of twenty years, they will be

more than doubled, and the charge of keeping these servants will be

nearly the same, in proportion to the master’s circumstances. But

there is no need of being a deep algebraist to discover that the

expense of this augmentation is more in appearance than reality, that

there will be but few to whom double wages will be paid, and that if

they were paid to all the servants, yet the benefit of having been

well served for twenty years past, would more than compensate the

extraordinary expense. You perceive, my Lord, that this is a certain

expedient of making servants grow continually more and more careful,

and of attaching them to you, by attaching yourself to them. There is

not only prudence, but justice in such a provision. Is it reasonable

that a new-comer, who has no affection for you, and who is perhaps an

unworthy object, should receive the same salary, at his first entrance

into the family, as an old servant, whose zeal and fidelity have been

tried in a long course of services, and who besides, being grown in

years, draws near the time when he will be incapable of providing for

himself? The latter reason, however, must not be brought into the

account, and you may easily imagine that such a benevolent master and

mistress do not fail to discharge that duty, which many, who are

devoid of charity, fulfill out of ostentation; and you may suppose

that they do not abandon those whose infirmities or old age render

them incapable of service.

I can give you a very striking instance of their attention to this

duty. The Baron D’Etange being desirous to recompense the long

services of his valet de chambre, by procuring him an honourable

retreat, had the interest to obtain for him the L.S.E.E. an easy

and lucrative post. Eloisa has just now received a most affecting

letter from this old servant, in which he intreats her to get him

excused from accepting this employment. “I am in years, says he, I

have lost all my family; I have no relations but my master and his

family; all my hope is to end my days quietly in the house where I

have passed the greatest part, of them. Often, dear madam, as I have

held you in my arms when but an infant, I prayed to heaven that I

might one day hold your little ones in the same manner. My prayers

have been heard; do not deny me the happiness of seeing them grow and

prosper like you. I who have been accustomed to a quiet family, where

shall I find such another place of rest in my old age? Be so kind to

write to the Baron in my behalf. If he is dissatisfied with me, let

him turn me off, and give me no employment; but if I have served him

faithfully for these forty years past, let him allow me to end my days

in his service and yours; he cannot reward me better.” It is needless

to enquire whether Eloisa wrote to the Baron or not. I perceive that

she would be as unwilling to part with this good man, as he would be

to leave her. Am I wrong, my Lord, when I compare a master and

mistress, thus beloved, to good parents, and their servants to

obedient children? You find that they consider themselves in this

light.

There is not a single instance in this family of a servant’s giving

warning. It is even very seldom that they are threatened with a

dismission. A menace of this kind alarms them in proportion as their

service is pleasant and agreeable. The best subjects are always the

soonest alarmed, and there is never any occasion to come to

extremities but with such as are not worth regretting. They have

likewise a rule in this respect. When Mr. Wolmar says, I discharge

you, they may then implore Mrs. Wolmar to intercede for them, and

through her intercession may be restored; but if she gives them

warning, it is irrevocable, and they have no favour to expect. This

agreement between them is very well calculated both to moderate the

extreme confidence which her gentleness might beget in them, and the

violent apprehensions they might conceive from his inflexibility. Such

a warning nevertheless is excessively dreaded from a just and

dispassionate master; for besides that they are not certain of

obtaining favour, and that the same person is never pardoned twice,

they forfeit the right which they acquire from their long service, by

having had warning given, and when they are restored, they begin a new

service as it were. This prevents the old servants from growing

insolent, and makes them more circumspect, in proportion as they have

more to lose.

The three maid-servants are, the chamber-maid, the governess, and the

cook. The latter is a country girl, very proper and well qualified for

the place, whom Mrs. Wolmar has instructed in cookery: for in this

country, which is as yet in some measure in a state of simplicity,

young ladies learn to do that business themselves, that when they keep

house, they may be able to direct their servants; and consequently are

less liable to be imposed upon by them. B---- is no longer the

chambermaid; they have sent her back to Etange, where she was born;

they have again entrusted her with the care of the castle, and the

superintendence of the receipts, which makes her in some degree

comptroller of the houshold. Mr. Wolmar intreated his wife to make

this regulation; but it was a long time before she could resolve to

part with an old servant of her mother’s, though she had more than one

reason to be displeased with her. But after their last conference, she

gave her consent, and B---- is gone. This girl is handy and honest,

but babbling and indiscreet. I suspect that she has, more than once,

betrayed the secrets of her mistress, that Mr. Wolmar is sensible of

it, and to prevent her being guilty of the same indiscretion with

respect to a stranger, he has prudently taken this method to avail

himself of her good qualities, without running any hazard from her

imperfections. She who is taken in her room, is that same Fanny, of

whom you have often heard me speak with so much pleasure.

Notwithstanding Eloisa’s prediction, her favours, her father’s

kindness and yours, this deserving and discreet woman has not been

happy in her connection. Claud Anet, who endured adversity so

bravely, could not support a more prosperous state. When he found

himself at ease, he neglected his business, and his affairs being

quite embarrassed, he fled the country, leaving his wife with an

infant whom she has since lost. Eloisa having taken her home,

instructed her in the business of a chamber-maid, and I was never more

agreeably surprized than to find her settled in her employment, the

first day of my arrival. Mr. Wolmar pays great regard to her, and they

have both entrusted her with the charge of superintending their

children, and of having an eye likewise over their governess, who is a

simple credulous country lass, but attentive, patient, and tractable;

so that in short, they have omitted no precaution to prevent the vices

of the town from creeping into a family, where the master and mistress

are strangers to them, and will not suffer them under their roof.

Though there is but one table among all the servants, yet there is but

little communication between the men and women, and this they consider

as a point of great importance. Mr. Wolmar is not of the same opinion

with those masters, who are indifferent to every thing which does not

immediately concern their interests, and who only desire to be well

served, without troubling themselves about what their servants do

beside. He thinks, on the contrary, that they who regard nothing but

their own service, cannot be well served. Too close a connection

between the two sexes, frequently occasions mischief. The disorders of

most families arise from the rendezvous which are held in the chamber-

maid’s apartment. If there is one whom the steward happens to be fond

of, he does not fail to seduce her at the expense of his master. A

good understanding among the men, or among the women, is not alone

sufficiently firm to produce any material consequences. But it is

always between the men and the women that those secret monopolies are

established, which in the end ruin the most wealthy families. They pay

a particular attention therefore to the discretion and modesty of the

women, not only from principles of honesty and morality, but from

well-judged motives of interest. For whatever some may pretend, no one

who does not love his duty, can discharge it as he ought; and none

ever loved their duty, who were devoid of honour.

They do not, to prevent any dangerous intimacy between the two sexes,

restrain them by positive rules which they might be tempted to violate

in secret, but without any seeming intention, they establish good

customs, which are more powerful than authority itself. They do not

forbid any intercourse between them, but ’tis contrived in such a

manner that they have no occasion or inclination to see each other.

This is effectuated by making their business, their habits, their

tastes, and their pleasures entirely different. To maintain the

admirable order which they have established, they are sensible that in

a well-regulated family there should be as little correspondence as

possible between the two sexes. They, who would accuse their master of

caprice, was he to enforce such a rule by way of injunction, submit,

without regret, to a manner of life which is not positively prescribed

to them, but which they themselves conceive to be the best and most

natural. Eloisa insists that it must be so in fact; she maintains that

neither love nor conjugal union is the result of a continual commerce

between the sexes. In her opinion, husband and wife were designed to

live together, but not to live in the same manner. They ought to act

in concert, but not to do the same things. The kind of life, says she,

which would delight the one, would be insupportable to the other; the

inclinations which nature has given them, are as different as the

occupations she has assigned them: they differ in their amusements as

much as in their duties. In a word, each contributes to the common

good by different ways, and the proper distribution of their several

cares and employments, is the strongest tie that cements their union.

For my own part, I confess that my observations are much in favour of

this maxim. In fact, is it not the general practice, except among the

French, and those who imitate them, for the men and women to live

separately? If they see each other, it is rather by short interviews,

and as it were by stealth, as the Spartans visited their wives, than

by an indiscreet and constant intercourse, sufficient to confound and

destroy the wisest bounds of distinction which nature has set between

them. We do not, even among the savages, see men and women intermingle

indiscriminately. In the evening, the family meet together; every one

passes the night with his wife; when the day begins, they separate

again, and the two sexes enjoy nothing in common, but their meals at

most. This is the order, which, from its universality, appears to be

most natural, and even in those countries where it is perverted, we

may perceive some vestiges of it remaining. In France, where the men

have submitted to live after the fashion of the women, and to be

continually shut up in a room with them, you may perceive from their

involuntary motions that they are under confinement. While the ladies,

sit quietly, or loll upon their couch, you may perceive the men get

up, go, come, and sit down again, perpetually restless, as if a kind

of mechanical instinct continually counteracted the restraint they

suffered, and prompted them, in their own respite, to that active and

laborious life for which nature intended them. They are the only

people in the world where the men _stand_ at the theatre, as if they

went into the pit to relieve themselves of the fatigue of having been

sitting all day in a dining room. In short, they are to sensible of

the irksomeness of this effeminate and sedentary indolence, that in

order to checquer it with some degree of activity at least, they yield

their places at home to strangers, and go to other mens’ wives in

order to alleviate their disgust!

The example of Mrs. Wolmar’s family contributes greatly to support the

maxim she establishes. Every one, as it were, being confined to their

proper sex, the women there live in a great measure apart from the

men. In order to prevent any suspicious connections between them, her

great secret is to keep both one and the other constantly employed;

for their occupations are so different, that nothing but idleness can

bring them together. In the morning, each apply to their proper

business, and no one is at leisure to interrupt the other. After

dinner, the men are employed in the garden, the yard, or in some other

rural occupation: the women are busy in the nursery till the hour

comes at which they take a walk with the children, and sometimes

indeed with the mistress, which is very agreeable to them, as it is

the only time in which they take the air. The men, being sufficiently

tired with their day’s work, have seldom any inclination to walk, and

therefore rest themselves within doors.

Every Sunday, after evening service, the women meet again in the

nursery, with some friend or relation whom they invite in their turns

by Mrs. Wolmar’s consent. There, they have a little collation prepared

for them by Eloisa’s direction; and she permits them to chat, sing,

run or play at some little game of skill, fit to please children, and

such as they may bear a part in themselves. The entertainment is

composed of syllabubs, cream, and different kinds of cakes, with such

other little viands as suit the taste of women and children. Wine is

almost excluded, and the men, who are rarely admitted of this little

female party, never are present at this collation, which Eloisa seldom

misses. I am the only man who has obtained this privilege. Last

Sunday, with great importunity, I got leave to attend her there. She

took great pains to make me consider it as a very singular favour. She

told me aloud that she granted it for that once only, and that she had

even refused Mr. Wolmar himself. You may imagine whether this

difficulty of admission does not flatter female vanity a little, and

whether a footman would be a welcome visitor, where his master was

excluded.

I made a most delicious repast with them. Where will you find such

cream-cakes as we have here? Imagine what they must be, made in a

dairy where Eloisa presides, and eaten in her company. Fanny presented

me with some cream, some seed cake, and other little comfits. All was

gone in an instant. Eloisa smiled at my appetite. I find, said she,

giving me another plate of cream, that your appetite does you credit

every where, and that you make as good a figure among a club of

females, as you do among the Valaisians. But I do not, answered I,

make the repast with more impunity; the one may be attended with

intoxication as well as the other; and reason may be as much

distracted in a nursery, as in a wine cellar. She cast her eyes down

without making any reply, blushed, and began to play with her

children. This was enough to sting me with remorse. This, my Lord, was

my first indiscretion, and I hope it will be the last.

There was a certain air of primitive simplicity in this assembly,

which affected me very sensibly. I perceived the same chearfulness in

every countenance, and perhaps more openness than if there had been

men in company. The familiarity which was observable between the

mistress and her servants, being founded on sincere attachment and

confidence, only served to establish respect and authority; and the

services rendered and received, appeared like so many testimonies of

reciprocal friendship. There was nothing, even to the very choice of

the collation, but what contributed to make this assembly engaging.

Milk and sugar are naturally adapted to the taste of the fair sex, and

may be deemed the symbols of innocence and sweetness, which are their

most becoming ornaments. Men, on the contrary, are fond of high

flavours, and strong liquors; a kind of nourishment more suitable to

the active and laborious life for which nature has designed them; and

when these different tastes come to be blended, it is an infallible

sign that the distinction between the two sexes is inordinately

confounded. In fact, I have observed that in France, where the women

constantly intermix with the men, they have entirely lost their relish

for milk meats, and the men have in some measure lost their taste for

wine; and in England, where the two sexes are better distinguished,

the proper taste of each is better preserved. In general, I am of

opinion, that you may very often form some judgment of people’s

disposition, from their choice of food. The Italians, who live a great

deal on vegetables, are soft and effeminate. You Englishmen, who are

great eaters of meat, have something harsh in your rigid virtue, and

which favours of barbarism. The Swiss, who is naturally of a calm,

gentle and cold constitution, but hot and violent when in a passion,

is fond both of one and the other, and drinks milk and wine

indiscriminately. The Frenchman, who is pliant and changeable, lives

upon all kinds of food, and conforms himself to every taste. Eloisa

herself may serve as an instance: for though she makes her meals with

a keen appetite, yet she does not love meat, ragouts, or salt, and

never yet tasted wine by itself. Some excellent roots, eggs, cream and

fruit, compose her ordinary diet, and was it not for fish, of which

she is likewise very fond, she would be a thorough Pythagorean.

To keep the women in order would signify nothing, if the men were not

likewise under proper regulations; and this branch of domestic

economy, which is not of less importance, is still more difficult; for

the attack is generally more lively than the defence: the guardian of

human nature intended it so. In the common wealth, citizens are kept

in order by principles of morality and virtue; but how are we to keep

servants and mercenaries under proper regulations, otherwise than by

force and restraint? The art of a master consists in disguising this

restraint under the veil of pleasure and interest, that what they are

obliged to do, may seem the result of their own inclination. Sunday

being a day of idleness, and servants having a right of going where

they please, when business does not require their duty at home, that

one day often destroys all the good examples and lessons of the other

six. The habit of frequenting public houses, the converse and maxims

of their comrades, the company of loose women, soon render them

unserviceable to their masters, and unprofitable to themselves; and by

teaching them a thousand vices, make them unfit for servitude, and

unworthy of liberty.

To remedy this inconvenience, they endeavour to keep them at home by

the same motives which induce them to go abroad. Why do they go

abroad? To drink and play at a public house. They drink and play at

home. All the difference is, that the wine costs them nothing, that

they do not get drunk, and that there are some winners at play,

without any losers. The following is the method taken for this

purpose.

Behind the house is a shady walk, where they have fixed the lifts.

There, in the summertime, the livery servants and the men in the yard

meet every Sunday after sermon time, to play in little detached

parties, not for money, for it is not allowed, nor for wine, which is

given them; but for a prize furnished by their master’s generosity:

which is generally some piece of goods or apparel fit for their use.

The number of games is in proportion to the value of the prize, so

that when the prize is somewhat considerable, as a pair of silver

buckles, a neckcloth, a pair of silk stockings, a fine hat, or any

thing of that kind, they have generally several bouts to decide it.

They are not confined to one particular game, but they change them,

that one man, who happens to excel in a particular game, may not carry

off all the prizes, and that they may grow stronger and more dextrous

by a variety of exercises. At one time, the contest is who shall first

reach a mark at the other end of the walk; at another time it is who

shall throw the same stone farthest; then again it is who shall carry

the same weight longest. Sometimes they contend for a prize by

shooting at a mark. Most of these games are attended with some little

preparations, which serve to prolong them; and render them

entertaining. Their master and mistress often honour them with their

presence; they sometimes take their children with them; nay even

strangers resort thither, excited by curiosity, and they desire

nothing better than to bear a share in the sport; but none are ever

admitted without Mr. Wolmar’s approbation and the consent of the

players, who would not find their account in granting it readily. This

custom has imperceptibly become a kind of shew, in which the actors,

being animated by the presence of the spectators, prefer the glory of

applause to the lucre of the prize. As these exercises make them more

active and vigorous, they set a greater value on themselves, and being

accustomed to estimate their importance from their own intrinsic

worth, rather than from their possessions, they prize honour,

notwithstanding they are footmen, beyond money.

It would be tedious to enumerate all the advantages which they derive

from a practice so trifling in appearance, and which is always

despised by little minds; but it is the prerogative of true genius to

produce great effects by inconsiderable means. Mr. Wolmar has assured

me that these little institutions which his wife first suggested,

scares stood him in fifty crowns a year. But, said he, how often do

you think I am repaid this sum in my housekeeping and my affairs in

general, by the vigilance and attention with which I am served by

these faithful servants, who derive all their pleasures from their

master; by the interest they take in a family which they consider as

their own; by the advantage I reap, in their labours, from the vigour

they acquire at their exercises; by the benefit of keeping them always

in health, in preserving them from those exercises which are common to

men in their station, and from those disorders which frequently attend

such excesses; by securing them from any propensity to knavery, which

is an infallible consequence of irregularity, and by confirming them

in the practice of honesty; in short, by the pleasure of having such

agreeable recreations within ourselves at such a trifling expense? If

there are any among them, either man or woman, who do not care to

conform to our regulations, but prefer the liberty of going where they

please on various pretences, we never refuse to give them leave; but

we consider this licentious turn as a very suspicious symptom, and we

are always ready to mistrust such dispositions. Thus these little

amusements which furnish us with good servants, serve also as a

direction to us in the choice of them.----I must confess my Lord,

that, except in this family, I never saw the same men made good

domestics for personal service, good husbandmen for tilling the

ground, good soldiers for the defence of their country, and honest

fellows in any station into which fortune may chance to throw them.

In the winter, their pleasures vary as well as their labours. On a

Sunday, all the servants in the family and even the neighbours, men

and women indiscriminately, meet after service-time in a hall where

there is a good fire, some wine, fruits, cakes, and a fiddle to which

they dance. Mrs. Wolmar never fails to be present for some time at

least, in order to preserve decorum and modesty by her presence, and

it is not uncommon for her to dance herself, though among her own

people. When I was first made acquainted with this custom, it appeared

to me not quite conformable to the strictness of Protestant morals. I

told Eloisa so; and she answered me to the following effect.

Pure morality is charged with so many severe duties, that if it is

over burthened with forms which are in themselves indifferent they

will always be of prejudice to what is really essential. This is said

to be the case with the monks in general, who being slaves to rules

totally immaterial, are utter strangers to the meaning of honour and

virtue. This defeat is less observable among us, though we are not

wholly exempt from it. Our churchmen, who are as much superior to

other priests in knowledge, as our religion is superior to all others

in purity, do nevertheless maintain some maxims, which seem to be

rather founded on prejudice than reason. Of this kind, is that which

condemns dancing and assemblies, as if there were more harm in dancing

than singing, as if each of these amusements were not equally a

propensity of nature, and as if it were a crime to divert ourselves

publicly with an innocent and harmless recreation. For my own part, I

think, on the contrary, that every time there is a concourse of the

two sexes, every public diversion becomes innocent, by being public;

whereas the most laudable employment becomes suspicious in a _tete a

tete_ party. [53] Man and woman were formed for each other, their union

by marriage is the end of nature. All false religion is at war with

nature, ours which conforms to and rectifies natural propensity,

proclaims a divine institution which is most suitable to mankind.

Religion ought not to increase the embarrassment which civil

regulations throw in the way of matrimony, by difficulties which the

gospel does not create, and which are contrary to the true spirit of

Christianity. Let any one tell me which young people can have an

opportunity of conceiving a mutual liking, and of seeing each other

with more decorum and circumspection, than in an assembly where the

eyes of the spectators being constantly upon them, oblige them to

behave with peculiar caution? How can we offend God by an agreeable

and wholesome exercise, suitable to the vivacity of youth, an exercise

which consists in the art of presenting ourselves to each other with

grace and elegance, and wherein the presence of the spectator imposes

a decorum, which no one dares to violate? Can we conceive a more

effectual method to avoid imposition with respect to person at least,

by displaying ourselves with all our natural graces and defects before

those whose interest it is to know us thoroughly, ere they oblige

themselves to love us? Is not the obligation of reciprocal affection

greater than that of self-love, and is it not an attention worthy of a

pious and virtuous pair who propose to marry, thus to prepare their

hearts for that mutual love, which heaven prompts.