What is the consequence, in those places where people are under a

continual restraint, where the most innocent gaiety is punished as

criminal, where the young people of different sexes dare not meet in

public, and where the indiscreet severity of the pastor preaches

nothing, in the name of God, but servile constraint, sadness and

melancholy? They find means to elude an insufferable tyranny, which

nature and reason disavow. When gay and sprightly youth are debarred

from lawful pleasures, they substitute others more dangerous in their

stead. _Tete a tete_ parties artfully concerted, supply the place of

public assemblies. By being obliged to concealment as if they were

criminal, they at length become so in fact. Harmless joy loves to

display itself in the face of the world, but vice is a friend to

darkness; and innocence and secrecy never subsist long together. My

dear friend, said she, grasping my hand, as if she meant to convey her

repentance, and communicate the purity of her own heart to mine; who

can be more sensible of the importance of this truth than ourselves?

What sorrow and troubles, what tears and remorse we might have

prevented for so many years past, if we could, but have foreseen how

dangerous a _tete a tete_ intercourse was to that virtue which we

always loved!

Besides, said Mrs. Wolmar, in a softer tone, it is not in a numerous

assembly, where we are seen and heard by all the world, but in private

parties, where secrecy and freedom is indulged, that our morals are in

danger. It is from this principle, that whenever my domestics meet, I

am glad to see them all together. I even approve of their inviting

such young people in the neighbourhood whose company will not corrupt

them; and I hear with pleasure, that, when they mean to commend the

morals of any of our young neighbours, they say----He is admitted at

Mr. Wolmar’s. We have a farther view in this. Our men servants are all

very young, and, among the women, the governess is yet single; it is

not reasonable that the retired life they lead with us, should debar

them of an opportunity of forming an honest connection. We endeavour

therefore, in these little meetings, to give them this opportunity,

under our inspection, that we may assist them in their choice; and

thus by endeavouring to make happy families, we increase the felicity

of our own.

I ought now to justify myself for dancing with these good people; but

I rather chuse to pass sentence on myself in this respect, and I

frankly confess that my chief motive is the pleasure I take in the

exercise. You know that I always resembled my cousin in her passion

for dancing; but after the death of my mother, I bade adieu to the

ball and all public assemblies; I kept my resolution, even to the day

of my marriage, and will keep it still, without thinking it any

violation to dance now and then in my own house with my guests and my

domestics. It is an exercise very good for my health during the

sedentary life which we are obliged to live here in winter. I find it

an innocent amusement; for after a good dance, my conscience does not

reproach me. It amuses Mr. Wolmar likewise, and all my coquetry in

this particular is only to please him. I am the occasion of his coming

into the ball room; the good people are best satisfied when they are

honoured with their master’s presence; and they express a satisfaction

when they see me amongst them. In short, I find that such occasional

familiarity forms an agreeable connection and attachment between us,

which approaches nearer the natural condition of mankind, by

moderating the meanness of servitude, and the rigour of authority.

Such, my Lord, are the sentiments of Eloisa, with respect to dancing,

and I have often wondered how so much affability could consist with

such a degree of subordination, and how she and her husband could so

often stoop to level themselves with their servants, and yet the

latter never be tempted to assume equality in their turn. I question

if any Asiatic monarchs are attended in their palaces with more

respect, than Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar are served in their own house. I

never knew any commands less imperious than theirs, or more readily

executed: if they ask for any thing, their servants fly; if they

excuse their failings, they themselves are nevertheless sensible of

their faults. I was never better convinced how much the force of what

is said, depends on the mode of expression.

This has led me into a reflection on the affected gravity of masters;

which is, that it is rather to be imputed to their own failings, than

to the effects of their familiarity, that they are despised in their

families, and that the insolence of servants is rather an indication

of a vicious than of a weak master: for nothing gives them such

assurance, as the knowledge of his vices, and they consider all

discoveries of that kind as so many dispensations, which free them

from their obedience to a man whom they can no longer respect.

Servants imitate their masters, and by copying them awkwardly, they

render those defects more conspicuous in themselves, which the polish

of education, in some measure, disguised in the others. At Paris, I

used to judge of the ladies of my acquaintance, by the air and manners

of their waiting-women, and this rule never deceived me. Besides that

the lady’s woman, when she becomes the confident of her mistress’s

secrets, makes her buy her discretion at a dear rate, she likewise

frames her conduct according to her lady’s sentiments, and discloses

all her maxims, by an awkward imitation. In every instance, the

master’s example is more efficacious than his authority; it is not

natural to suppose that their servants will be honester than

themselves. It is to no purpose to make a noise, to swear, to abuse

them, to turn them off, to get a new set; all this avails nothing

towards making good servants. When they, who do not trouble themselves

about being hated and despised by their domestics, nevertheless

imagine that they are well served, the reason of their mistake is,

that they are contented with what they see, and satisfied with an

appearance of diligence, without observing the thousand secret

prejudices they suffer continually, and of which they cannot discover

the source. But where is the man so devoid of honour, as to be able to

endure the contempt of everyone round him? Where is the woman so

abandoned as not to be susceptible of insults? How many ladies, both

at Paris and in London, who think themselves greatly respected, would

burst into tears if they heard what was said of them in their anti-

chambers? Happily for their peace, they comfort themselves by taking

these Arguses for weak creatures, and by flattering themselves that

they are blind to those practices which they do not even deign to hide

from them. They likewise in their turn discover, by their sullen

obedience, the contempt they have for their mistresses. Masters and

servants become mutually sensible, that it is not worth their while to

conciliate each other’s esteem.

The behaviour of servants seems to me to be the most certain and nice

proof of the master’s virtue; and I remember, my Lord, to have formed

a good opinion of yours at Valais without knowing you, purely because,

though you spoke somewhat harshly to your attendants, they were not

the less attached to you, and that they expressed as much respect for

you in your absence, as if you had been within hearing. It has been

said that no man is a hero in the eyes of his Valet de Chambre;

perhaps not; but every worthy man will enjoy his servant’s esteem;

which sufficiently proves that heroism is only a vain phantom, and

that nothing is solid but virtue. The power of its empire is

particularly observable here in the lowest commendations of the

servants. Commendations the less to be suspected, as they do not

consist of vain eulogiums, but of an artless expression of their

feelings. As they cannot suppose, from any thing which they see, that

other masters are not like theirs, they therefore do not commend them

on account of those virtues which they conceive to be common to

masters in general, but, in the simplicity of their hearts, they thank

God for having sent the rich to make those under them happy, and to be

a comfort to the poor.

Servitude is a state so unnatural to mankind, that it cannot subsist

without some degree of discontent. Nevertheless they respect their

master, and say nothing. If any murmurings escape them against their

mistress, they are more to her honour than encomiums would be. No one

complains that she is wanting in kindness to them, but that she pays

so much regard to others; no one can endure that his zeal should be

put in competition with that of his comrades, and as every one

imagines himself foremost in attachment, he would be first in favour.

This is their only complaint, and their greatest injustice.

There is not only a proper subordination among those of inferior

station, but a perfect harmony among those of equal rank; and this is

not the least difficult part of domestic economy. Amidst the clashings

of jealousy and self-interest, which makes continual divisions in

families not more numerous than this, we seldom find servants united

but at the expense of their masters. If they agree, it is to rob in

concert; if they are honest, every one shews his importance at the

expense of the rest; they must either be enemies or accomplices, and

it is very difficult to find a way of guarding at the same time both

against their knavery and their dissentions. The masters of families

in general know no other method but that of choosing the alternative

between these two inconveniencies. Some, preferring interest to

honour, foment a quarrelsome disposition among their servants by means

of private reports, and think it a masterpiece of prudence to make

them superintendents and spies over each other. Others, of a more

indolent nature, rather chuse that their servants should rob them,

and live peaceably among themselves; they pique themselves upon

discountenancing any information which a faithful servant may give

them out of pure zeal. Both are equally to blame. The first, by

exciting continual disturbances in their families, which are

incompatible with good order and regularity, get together a heap of

knaves and informers, who are busy in betraying their fellow servants,

that they may hereafter perhaps betray their masters. The second, by

refusing all information with regard to what passes in their families,

countenance combinations against themselves, encourage the wicked,

dishearten the good, and only maintain a pack of arrogant and idle

rascals at a great expense, who, agreeing together at their master’s

cost, look upon their service as a matter of favour, and their thefts

as perquisites. [54]

It is a capital error in domestic as well as in civil economy, to

oppose one vice to another, or to attempt an equilibrium between them,

as if that which undermines the foundations of all order, could ever

tend to establish regularity. This mistaken policy only serves to

unite every inconvenience. When particular vices are tolerated in a

family, they do not reign alone. Let one take root, a thousand will

soon spring up. They presently ruin the servants who harbour them,

undo the master who tolerates them, and corrupt or injure the children

who remark them with attention. What father can be so unworthy as to

put any advantage whatever in competition with this last

inconvenience? What honest man would chuse to be master of a family,

if it was impossible for him to maintain peace and fidelity in his

house at the same time, and if he must be obliged to purchase the

attachment of his servants; at the expense of their mutual good

understanding?

Who does not see, that in this family, they have not even an idea of

any such difficulty? So much does the union among the several members

proceed from their attachment to the head. It is here we may perceive

a striking instance, how impossible it is to have a sincere affection

for a master without loving every thing that belongs to him; a truth

which is the real foundation of Christian charity. Is it not very

natural, that the children of the same father should live together

like brethren? This is what they tell us every day at church, without

making us feel the sentiment; and this is what the domestics in this

family feel, without being told it.

This disposition to good fellowship is owing to a choice of proper

subjects. Mr. Wolmar, when he hires his servants, does not examine

whether they suit his wife and himself, but whether they suit each

other, and if they were to discover a settled antipathy between two of

the best servants, it would be sufficient for them to discharge one:

for, says Eloisa, in so small a family, a family where they never go

abroad, but are constantly before each other, they ought to agree

perfectly among themselves. They ought to consider it as their

father’s house, where all are of the same family. One, who happens to

be disagreeable to the rest, is enough to make them hate the place;

and that disagreeable object being constantly before their eyes, they

would neither be easy themselves, nor suffer us to be quiet.

After having made the best assortment in their power, they unite them

as it were by the services which they oblige each to render the other,

and they contrive that it shall be the real interest of every one to

be beloved by his fellow servants. No one is so well received who

solicits a favour for himself, as when he asks it for another; so that

whoever has any thing to request, endeavours to engage another to

intercede for him; and this they do with greater readiness, since,

whether their master grants or refuses the favour requested, he never

fails to acknowledge the merit of the person interceding. On the

contrary, both he and Mrs. Wolmar always reject the solicitations of

those who only regard themselves. Why, say they, should I grant, what

is desired in your favour, who have never made me any request in

favour of another? Is it reasonable, that you should be more favoured

than your companions, because they are more obliging than you? They do

more; they engage them to serve each other in private, without any

ostentation, and without assuming any merit. This is the more easily

accomplished, as they know that their master, who is witness of their

discretion, will esteem them the more, thus self-interest is a gainer,

and self-love no loser. They are so convinced of this general

disposition to oblige, and they have such confidence in each other,

that when they have any favour to ask, they frequently mention it at

table by way of conversation; very often, without farther trouble,

they find that the thing has been requested and granted, and as they

do not know whom to thank, their obligation is to all.

It is by this, and such like methods, that they beget an attachment

among them, resulting from, and subordinate to, the zeal they have for

their master. Thus, far from leaguing together to his prejudice, they

are only united for his service. However it may be their interest to

love each other, they have still stronger motives for pleasing him;

their zeal for his service gets the better of their mutual good will,

and each considering himself as injured by losses which may make their

master less able to recompense a faithful servant, they are all

equally incapable of suffering any individual to do him wrong

unnoticed. This principle of policy which is established in this

family, seems to have somewhat sublime in it; and I cannot

sufficiently admire how Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have been able to

transform the vile function of an informer into an office of zeal,

integrity, and courage, as noble, or at least as praise-worthy, as it

was among the Romans.

They began by subverting, or rather by preventing, in a plain and

perspicuous manner, and by affecting instances, that servile and

criminal practice, that mutual toleration at the master’s cost, which

a worthless servant never fails to inculcate to a good one, under the

mask of a charitable maxim. They made them understand, that the

precept which enjoins us to hide our neighbour’s faults, relates to

those only which do injury to no one; that if they are witness to any

injustice which injures a third person, and do not discover it, they

are guilty of it themselves; and that as nothing can oblige us to

conceal such faults in others, but a consciousness of our own defects,

therefore no one would chuse to countenance knaves, if he was not a

knave himself. Upon these principles, which are just in general, as

between man and man, but more strictly so with respect to the close

connection between master and servant, they hold it here as an

incontestable truth, that whoever sees their master wronged, without

making a discovery, is more guilty than he who did the wrong; for he

suffers himself to be misled by the prospect of advantage, but the

other in cool blood and without any view of interest, can be induced

to secrecy by no other motive than a thorough disregard of justice, an

indifference towards the welfare of the family he serves, and a hidden

desire of copying the example he conceals. Therefore even where the

fault is considerable, the guilty party may nevertheless sometimes

hope for pardon, but the witness who conceals the fact, is infallibly

dismissed as a man of a bad disposition.

In return, they receive no accusation which may be suspected to

proceed from injustice and calumny; that is to say, they admit of none

in the absence of the accused. If any one comes to make a report

against his fellow servant, or to prefer a personal complaint against

him, they ask him whether he is sufficiently informed, that is to say,

whether he has entered into any previous inquiry with the person whom

he is going to accuse. If he answers in the negative, they ask him how

he can judge of an action, when he is not acquainted with the motives

to it? The fact, say they, may depend on some circumstance to which

you are a stranger; there may be some particulars which may serve to

justify or excuse it, and which you know nothing of. How can you

presume to condemn any one’s conduct, before you know by what motives

it is directed? One word of explanation would probably have rendered

it justifiable in your eyes. Why then do you run the risk of

condemning an action wrongfully, and of exposing me to participate of

your injustice? If he assures them, that he has entered into a

previous explanation with the accused; why then, say they, do you come

without him, as if you was afraid that he would falsify what you are

going to relate? By what right do you neglect taking the same

precaution with respect to me, which you think proper to use with

regard to yourself? Is it reasonable to desire me to judge of a fact

from your report, of which you refuse to judge yourself by the

testimony of your own eyes; and would not you be answerable for the

partial judgment I might form, if I was to remain satisfied with your

bare deposition? In the end, they direct them to summon the party

accused; if they consent, the matter is soon decided; if they refuse,

they dismiss them with a severe reprimand, but they keep the secret,

and watch them both so narrowly, that they are not long at a loss to

know which is in fault.

This rule is so well known and so well established, that you never

hear a servant in this family speak ill of his absent comrade, for

they are all sensible that it is the way to pass for a liar and a

coward. When any one of them accuses another, it is openly, frankly,

and not only to his face, but in the presence of all his fellow

servants, that they who are witnesses to their accusation, may be

vouchers of their integrity. In case of any personal disputes among

them, the difference is generally made up by mediators without

troubling Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar; but when the interest of the master is

at stake, the matter cannot remain a secret; the guilty party must

either accuse himself or be accused. These little pleadings happen

very seldom, and never but at table, in the rounds which Eloisa makes

every day while her people are at dinner or supper, which Mr. Wolmar

pleasantly calls her general sessions. After having patiently attended

to the accusation and the defence, if the affair regards her interest,

she thanks the accuser for his zeal. I am sensible, says she, that you

have a regard for your fellow servant, you have always spoken well of

him, and I commend you because the love of your duty and of justice

has prevailed over your private affections; it is thus that a faithful

servant and an honest man ought to behave. If the party accused is not

in fault, she always subjoins some compliment to her justification of

his innocence. But if he is really guilty, she in some measure spares

his shame before the rest. She supposes that he has something to

communicate in his defence, which he does not chuse to declare in

public; she appoints an hour to hear him in private, and it is then

that she or her husband talk to him as they think proper. What is very

remarkable is, that the most severe of the two is not most dreaded,

and that they are less afraid of Mr. Wolmar’s solemn reprimand, than

of Eloisa’s affecting reproaches. The former, speaking the language of

truth and justice, humbles and confounds the guilty; the latter

strikes them with the most cruel remorse, by convincing them with what

regret she is forced to withdraw her kindness from them. She sometimes

extorts tears of grief and shame from them, and it is not uncommon for

her to be moved herself when she sees them repent, in hopes that she

may not be obliged to abide by her word.

They who judge of these concerns by what passes in their own families,

or among their neighbours, would probably deem them frivolous or

tiresome. But you, my Lord, who have such high notions of the duties

and enjoyments of a master of a family, and who are sensible what an

ascendency natural disposition and virtue have over the human heart,

you perceive the importance of these minutiae, and know on what

circumstances their success depends. Riches do not make a man rich, as

is well observed in some romance. The wealth of a man is not in his

coffers, but in the use he makes of what he draws out of them; for our

possessions do not become our own, but by the uses to which we allot

them, and abuses are always more inexhaustible than riches; whence it

happens that our enjoyments are not in proportion to our expenses, but

depend on the just regulation of them. An idiot may toss ingots of

gold into the sea, and say he has enjoyed them: but what comparison is

there between such an extravagant enjoyment, and that which a wise man

would have derived from the least part of their value? Order and

regularity, which multiply and perpetuate the use of riches, are alone

capable of converting the enjoyment of them into felicity. But if real

property arises from the relation which our possessions bear to us, if

it is rather the use than the acquisition of riches which confers it,

what can be more proper subjects of attention for a master of a family

than domestic economy, and the prudent regulation of his houshold, in

which the most perfect correspondences more immediately concern him,

and where the happiness of every individual is an addition to the

felicity of the head?

Are the most wealthy the most happy? No: how then does wealth

contribute to felicity? But every well regulated family is emblematic

of the master’s mind. Gilded ceilings, luxury and magnificence, only

serve to shew the vanity of those who display such parade; whereas,

whenever you see order without melancholy, peace without slavery,

plenty without profusion, you may say with confidence, the master of

this house is a happy being.

For my own part, I think the most certain sign of true content is a

domestic and retired life, and that they who are continually resorting

to others in quest of happiness, do not enjoy it at home. A father of

a family who amuses himself at home, is rewarded for his continual

attention to domestic concerns, by the constant enjoyment of the most

agreeable sensations of nature. He is the only one who can be properly

said to be master of his own happiness, because, like heaven itself,

he is happy in desiring nothing more than he enjoys. Like the Supreme

Being, he does not wish to enlarge his possessions, but to make them

really his own, under proper directions, and by using them conformably

to the just relations of things: if he does not enrich himself by new

acquisitions, he enriches himself by the true enjoyment of what he

possesses. He once only enjoyed the income of his lands, he now enjoys

the lands themselves, by over-looking their culture, and surveying

them from time to time. His servant was a stranger to him: he is now

part of his enjoyment; his child; he makes him his own. Formerly, he

had only power over his servant’s actions, now he has authority over

his inclinations. He was his master only by paying him wages, now he

rules by the sacred dominion of benevolence and esteem. Though fortune

spoils him of his wealth, she can never rob him of those affections

which are attached to him; she cannot deprive a father of his

children; all the difference is, that he maintained them yesterday,

and that they will support him tomorrow. It is thus that we may learn

the true enjoyment of our riches, of our family, and of ourselves; it

is thus that the minutiae of a family become agreeable to a worthy man

who knows the value of them; it is thus that, far from considering

these little duties as troublesome, he makes them a part of his

happiness, and derives the glory and pleasure of human nature from

these noble and affecting offices.

If these precious advantages are despised or little known, and if the

few who endeavour to acquire them seldom obtain them, the reason, in

both cases, is the same. There are many simple and sublime duties,

which few people can relish and fulfil. Such are those of the master

of a family, for which the air and bustle of the world gives him a

disgust, and which he never discharges properly when he is only

inflamed by motives of avarice and interest. Some think themselves

excellent masters, and are only careful economists; their income may

thrive, and their family nevertheless be in a bad condition. They

ought to have more enlarged views to direct an administration of such

importance, so as to give it a happy issue. The first thing to be

attended to in the due regulation of a family, is to admit none but

honest people, who will not have any secret intention to disturb that

regularity. But are honesty and servitude so compatible, that we may

hope to find servants who are honest men? No, my Lord, if we would

have them, we must not inquire for them, but we must make them; and

none who are not men of integrity themselves are capable of making

others honest. It is to no purpose for a hypocrite to affect an air of

virtue, he will never inspire any one with an affection for it; and if

he knew how to make virtue amiable, he would be in love with it

himself. What do formal lessons avail, when daily example contradicts

them, unless to make us suspect that the moralist means to sport with

our credulity? What an absurdity are they guilty of who exhort us to

do as they say, and not as they act themselves! He who does not act up

to what he says, never speaks to any effect; for the language of the

heart is wanting, which alone is persuasive and affecting. I have

sometimes heard conversations of this kind held, in a gross manner,

before servants, in order to read them lectures, as they do to

children sometimes, in an indirect way. Far from having any reason to

imagine that they were the dupes of such artifice, I have always

observed them smile in secret at their master’s folly, who must have

taken them for blockheads, by making an awkward display of sentiments

before them, which they knew were none of his own.

All these idle subtleties are unknown in this family, and the grand

art by which the master and mistress make their servants what they

would desire them to be, is to appear themselves before them what

they really are. Their behaviour is always frank and open, because

they are not in any fear lest their actions should bely their

processions. As they themselves do not entertain principles of

morality different from those which they inculcate to others, they

have no occasion for any extraordinary circumspection in their

discourse; a word blundered out unseasonably does not overthrow the

principles they have laboured to establish. They do not indiscreetly

tell all their affairs, but they openly proclaim all their maxims.

Whether at table, or abroad, _tete a tete_, or in public, their

sentiments are still the same; they ingenuously deliver their opinions

on every subject, and without their having any individual in view,

every one is instructed by their conversation. As their servants never

see them do any thing but what is just, reasonable and equitable, they

do not consider justice as a tax on the poor, as a yoke on the

unhappy, and as one of the evils of their condition. The care they

take never to let the labourers come in vain, and lose their day’s

work in seeking after their wages, teaches their servants to set a

just value on time. When they see their master so careful of other

men’s time, each concludes that his own time must be of consequence,

and therefore deems idleness the greatest crime he can be guilty of.

The confidence which their servants have in their integrity, gives

that force to their regulations which makes them observed, and

prevents abuses. They are not afraid, when they come to receive their

weekly gratuities, that their mistress should partially determine the

youngest and most active to have been the most diligent. An old

servant is not apprehensive lest they should start some quibble, to

save the promised augmentation to their wages. They can never hope to

take advantage of any division between their master and mistress, in

order to make themselves of consequence, and to obtain from one what

the other has refused. They who are unmarried, are not afraid lest

they should oppose their settlement, in order to detain them longer;

and by that means make their service a prejudice to them. If a strange

servant was to tell the domestics of this family, that master and

servants are in a state of war with each other, that when the latter

do the former all the injury they can, they only make lawful

reprisals, that masters being usurpers, liars and knaves, there can

consequently be no harm in using them as they use their prince, the

people, or individuals, and in returning those injuries with

dexterity, which they offer openly----one who should talk in this

manner would not be attended to; they would not give themselves the

trouble to controvert or obviate such sentiments; they who give rise

to them, are the only persons whose business it is to refute them.

You never perceive any sullenness or mutiny in the discharge of their

duty, because there is never any haughtiness or capriciousness in the

orders they receive; nothing is required of them but what is

reasonable and expedient, and their master and mistress have too much

respect for the dignity of human nature, even in a state of servitude,

to put them upon any employment which may debase them. Moreover,

nothing here is reckoned mean but vice, and whatever is reasonable and

necessary, is deemed honourable and becoming.

They do not allow of any intrigues abroad, neither has any one any

inclinations of that kind. They are sensible that their fortune is

most firmly attached to their masters, and that they shall never want

any thing while his family prospers. Therefore in serving him, they

take care of their own patrimony, and increase it by making their

service agreeable; this above all things is their interest. But this

word is somewhat misapplied here, for I never knew any system of

policy by which self-interest was so skilfully directed, and where at

the same time it had less influence than in this family. They all act

from a principle of attachment, and one would think that venal souls

were purified as soon as they entered into this dwelling of wisdom and

union. He would imagine that part of the master’s intelligence, and of

the mistress’s sensibility, was conveyed to each of their servants;

they seem so judicious, benevolent, honest, and so much above their

station. Their greatest ambition is to do well, to be valued and

esteemed; and they consider an obliging expression from their master

or mistress, in the light of a present.

These, my Lord, are the most material observations I have made on that

part of the economy of this family, which regards the servants and

labourers. As to Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s manner of living, and the

education of their children, each of these articles very well deserves

a separate letter. You know with what view I began these remarks; but

in truth the whole forms such an agreeable representation, that we

need only meditate upon it to advance it, and we require no other

inducement, than the pleasure it affords us.

Letter CXXX. To Lord B----.

No, my Lord, I do not retract what I have said; in this family, the

useful and agreeable are united throughout; but occupations of use are

not confined to those pursuits which yield profit: they comprehend

farther every innocent and harmless amusement which may serve to

improve a relish for retirement, labour, and temperance, which may

contribute to preserve the mind in a vigorous state, and to keep the

heart free from the agitation of tumultuous passions. If inactive

indolence begets nothing but melancholy and irksomeness, the delights

of an agreeable leisure are the fruits of a laborious life. We only

work to enjoy ourselves; this alternative of labour and recreation is

our natural state. The repose which serves to refresh us after past

labours, and encourage us to renew them, is not less necessary for us

than labour itself.

After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and

attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was

witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired

place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her

elysium.

I had often heard them talk of this elysium, of which they made a

mystery before me. Yesterday however the excessive heat being almost

equally intolerable both within doors and without, Mr. Wolmar proposed

to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into

the nursery towards evening as usual, to come and breathe the fresh

air with us in the orchard; she consented, and thither we went.

This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner

by a shady walk which parts it from the house, that it is not visible

from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders

it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was

scarce got within-side, but, the door being covered with alder and

hazel trees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned

back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the

clouds.

On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an

agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful

and lively verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring

of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my

imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought

myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and I appeared

as if I had been the first mortal who had ever penetrated into this

desert spot. Being seized with astonishment, and transported at so

unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried

out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez!

[55] Eloisa, the world’s end is at your threshold! Many people, said

she, with a smile, think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most

presently brings them back to Clarens: let us see whether the charm

will work longer upon you. This is the same orchard where you have

walked formerly, and where you have played at romps with my cousin.

You may remember that the grass was almost burned up, the trees thinly

planted, affording very little umbrage, and that there was no water.

You find that now it is fresh, verdant, cultivated, embellished with

flowers, and well watered; what do you imagine it may have cost me to

put it in the condition you see? For you must know that I am the

superintendent, and that my husband leaves the entire management of it

to me. In truth, said I, it has cost you nothing but inattention. It

is indeed a delightful spot, but wild and rustic; and I can discover

no marks of human industry. You have concealed the door; the water

springs I know not whence; nature alone has done all the rest, and

even you could not have mended her work. It is true, said she, that

nature has done every thing, but under my direction, and you see

nothing but what has been done under my orders. Guess once more.

First, I replied, I cannot conceive how labour and expense can be made

to supply the effects of time. The trees... As to them, said Mr.

Wolmar, you may observe that there are none very large, and they were

here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work a long while before her

marriage, and presently after her mother’s death, when she used to

come here with her father in quest of solitude. Well, said I, since

you will have these large and massy bowers, these sloping tufts, these

umbrageous thickets to be the growth of seven or eight years, and to

be partly the work of art, I think you have been a good economist if

you have done all within this vast circumference for two thousand

crowns. You have only guessed two thousand crowns too much, says she,

for it cost me nothing. How, nothing? No, nothing; unless you place a

dozen days work in the year to my gardener’s account, as many to two

or three of my people, and some to Mr. Wolmar, who has sometimes

condescended to officiate, in my service, as a gardener. I could not

comprehend this riddle; but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to

me, letting me loose, Go, and you will understand it. Farewell Tinian,

farewell Juan Fernandez, farewell all enchantment! In a few minutes

you will find your way back from the end of the world.

I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of

extasy; and if I found no exotic plants, nor any of the products of

the Indies, I found all those which were natural to the soil disposed

and blended in such a manner, as to produce the most chearful and

lively effect. The verdant turf, thick but short and close, was

intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant

herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes,

among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers,

which seemed to grow natural with the rest. I now and then met with

shady tufts as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been

in a thick forest. These tufts were composed of trees of a very

flexible nature, the branches of which they bend, till they hang on

the ground, and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in

America. In the more open spots, I saw here and there bushes of roses,

raspberries, and gooseberries, little plantations of lilac, hazel

trees, alders, feringa, broom, and trifolium, dispersed without any

order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time

that it gave it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I

followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by

these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed

of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake-weed, and other plants of that kind,

with which honey-suckles and jessamine deigned to inter-twine. These

garlands seemed as if they were scattered carefully from one tree to

another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered

us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry

walking upon a fine moss, without sand or grass or any rugged shoots.

Then it was I first discovered, not without astonishment, that this

verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a

distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which

running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and

afforded shade and freshness underfoot. I observed likewise, that by

means of common industry, they had made several of these plants take

root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more, being

nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the

better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they have

sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and in the rest of their

grounds they have taken such care of the trees that, without the

orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you

do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the

midst of a wood, and to refresh one’s self with it, you will easily

conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe

fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there,

and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of

searching and selecting the best.

All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid

rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in

streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods

upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more

transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the

earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm

and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around.

Now, said I to Eloisa, I comprehend all the rest: but these waters

which I see on every side?... They come from thence she replied,

pointing to that side where the terrass lies. It is the same stream

which, at a vast expense, supplied the fountain, in the flower garden,

for which nobody cares. Mr. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect

to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here

everyday to see this water run through the orchard, which we never

look at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of

strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true

that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public

fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to

the detriment of passengers, besides its running to waste without

profit to any one. It formed an elbow at the foot of the orchard

between two rows of willows; I have taken them within my inclosure,

and I bring the same water hither through different channels.

I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these

streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and

uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the

slope as possible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the

most of a few little murmuring cascades. A lay of earth, covered with

some gravel from the lake, and strewed over with shells, forms a bed

for these waters. The same streams running at proper distances under

some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a level with the

ground, forms a kind of artificial springs where they issue forth.

Some small streams spout through pipes on some rugged places, and

bubble as they fall. The ground thus refreshed and watered,

continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps the grass always verdant

and beautiful.

The more I wandered over this delightful asylum, the more I found the

agreeable sensation improve which I experienced at my first entrance:

nevertheless my curiosity kept me in exercise; I was more eager to

view the objects around me, than to inquire into the cause of the

impressions they made on me, and I chose to resign myself to that

delightful contemplation, without taking the trouble of reflection;

but Mrs. Wolmar drew me out of my reverie, by taking me under the arm;

All that you see, said she, is nothing but vegetable and inanimate

nature, which in spite of us, always leaves behind it a melancholy

idea of solitude. Come and view nature animated and more affecting.

There you will discover some new charm every minute in the day. You

anticipate me, said I, I hear a confused chirping noise, and I see but

few birds; I suppose you have an aviary. True, said she, let us go to

it. I durst not as yet declare what I thought of this aviary; but

there was something in the idea of it which disgusted me, and did not

seem to correspond with the rest.

We went down, through a thousand turnings, to the bottom of the

orchard, where I found all the water collected in a fine rivulet,

flowing gently between two rows of old willows, which had been

frequently lopped. Their tops being hollow and half bare, formed a

kind of vessel, from whence, by the contrivance I just now mentioned,

grew several tufts of honey-suckles, of which one part intertwined

among the branches, and the other dropped carelessly along the side of

the rivulet. Near the extremity of the inclosure, was a little bason,

bordered with grass, bulrushes, and weeds, which served as a watering

place to the aviary, and was the last use made of this water, so

precious and so well husbanded.

Somewhat beyond this bason was a platform, which was terminated, in an

angle of the inclosure, by a hillock planted with a number of little

trees of all kinds; the smallest stood towards the summit, and their

size increased, in proportion as the ground grew lower, which made

their tops appear to be horizontal, or at least shewed that they were

one day intended to be so. In the front stood a dozen of trees, which

were young as yet, but of a nature to grow very large, such as the

beech, the elm, the ash, and the acacia. The groves on this side,

served as an asylum to that vast number of birds which I had heard

chirping at a distance, and it was under the shade of this foliage, as

under a large umbrella, that you might see them hop about, run, frisk,

provoke each other, and fight, as if they had not perceived us. They

were so far from flying at our approach, that, according to the notion

with which I was prepossessed, I imagined them to have been inclosed

within a wire; but when we came to the border of the bason, I saw

several of them alight, and come towards us through a short walk which

parted the platform in two, and made a communication between the bason

and the aviary. Mr. Wolmar then going round the bason, scattered two

or three handfuls of mixed grain, which he had in his pocket, along

the walk, and when he retired, the birds flocked together and began to

seed like so many chickens, with such an air of familiarity, that I

plainly perceived they had been trained up to it. This is charming,

said I: your using the word aviary, surprized me at first, but I now

see what it is; I perceive that you invite them as your guests,

instead of confining them as your prisoners. What do you mean by our

guests? replied Eloisa; it is we who are theirs. They are masters

here, and we pay them for being admitted some times. Very well, said

I, but how did these masters get possession of this spot? How did you

collect together so many voluntary inhabitants? I never heard of any

attempt of this kind, and I could not have believed that such a design

could have succeeded, if I had not evidence of it before my eyes.

Time and patience, said Mr. Wolmar, have worked this miracle. These

are expedients which the rich scarce ever think of in their pleasures.

Always in haste for enjoyment, force and money are the only

instruments they know how to employ; they have birds in cage, and

friends at so much a mouth. If the servants ever came near this place,

you would soon see the birds disappear, and if you perceive vast

numbers of them at present, the reason is that this spot has always,

in some degree, been a refuge for them. There is no bringing them

together where there are none to invite them, but where there are some

already, it is easy to increase their numbers by anticipating all

their wants, by not frightening them, by suffering them to hatch with

security, and by never disturbing the young ones in their nest; for by

these means, such as are there, abide there, and those which come

after them continue. This grove was already in being, though it was

divided from the orchard; Eloisa has only inclosed it by a quick-set

hedge, removed that which parted it, and enlarged and adorned it with

new designs. You see to the right and left of the walk which leads to

it, two spaces filled with a confused mixture of grass, straw, and all

sorts of plants. She orders them every year to be sown with corn,

millet, turnsol, hemp-seed, vetch; and in general all sorts of grain

which birds are fond of, and nothing is ever reaped. Besides this,

almost every day she or I bring them something to eat, and when we

neglect, Fanny supplies our place. They are supplied with water, as

you see, very easily. Mrs. Wolmar carries her attention so far as to

provide for them, every spring, little heaps of hair straw, wool,

moss, and other materials proper to build their nests. Thus by their

having materials at hand, provisions in abundance, and by the great

care we take to secure them from their enemies, [56] the uninterrupted

tranquility they enjoy induces them to lay their eggs in this

convenient place, where they want for nothing, and where nobody

disturbs them. Thus the habitation of the fathers becomes the abode of

the children, and the colony thrives and multiplies.

Ah! said Eloisa, do you see nothing more? No one thinks beyond

himself; but the affection of a constant pair, the zeal of their

domestic concerns, paternal and maternal fondness, all this is lost

upon you. Had you been here two months ago, you might have feasted

your eyes with the most lovely sight, and have gratified your feelings

with the most tender sensations in nature. Madam, said I, somewhat

gravely, you are a wife and a mother; there are pleasures of which it

becomes you to be susceptible. Mr. Wolmar then taking me cordially by

the hand, said, You have friends, and those friends have children; how

can you be a stranger to paternal affection? I looked at him, I looked

at Eloisa, they looked at each other, and cast such an affecting eye

upon me, that embracing them alternately, I said with tender emotion,

They are as dear to me as to yourself. I do not know by what strange

effect a single word can make such an alteration in our minds, but

since that moment, Mr. Wolmar appears to me quite another man, and I

consider him less in the light of a husband to her whom I have so long

adored, as in that of the father of two children for whom I would lay

down my life.

I was going to walk round the bason, in order to draw nearer to this

delightful asylum, and its little inhabitants, but Mrs. Wolmar checked

me. Nobody, says she, goes to disturb them in their dwelling, and you

are the first of our guests whom I ever brought so far. There are four

keys to this orchard, of which my father and we have each of us one:

Fanny has the fourth, as superintendent, and to bring the children

here now and then; the value of which favour is greatly enhanced by

the extreme circumspection which is required of them while they are

here. Even Gustin never comes hither without one of the four: when the

two spring months are over in which his labours are useful, he scarce

ever comes hither afterwards, and all the rest we do ourselves. Thus,

said I, for fear of making our birds slaves to you, you make

yourselves slaves to your birds. This, she replied, is exactly the

sentiment of a tyrant, who never thinks that he enjoys liberty, but

while he is disturbing the freedom of others.

As we were coming back, Mr. Wolmar threw a handful of barley into the

bason, and on looking into it, I perceived some little fish. Ah, ah,

said I immediately, here are some prisoners nevertheless. Yes, said

he, they are prisoners of war, who have had their lives spared.

Without doubt, added his wife. Some time since Fanny stole two perch

out of the kitchen, and brought them hither without my knowledge. I

leave them here, for fear of offending her if I sent them to the lake;

for it is better to confine the fish in too narrow a compass, than to

disoblige a worthy creature. You are in the right, said I, and the

fish are not much to be pitied for having escaped from the frying-pan

into the water.

Well, how does it appear to you? said she, as we were coming back; are

you got to the end of the world yet? No, I replied, I am quite out of

the world, and you have in truth transported me into elysium. The

pompous name she has given this orchard, said Mr. Wolmar, very well

deserves that raillery. Be modest in your commendation of childish

amusements, and be assured that they have never intrenched on the

concerns of the mistress of a family. I know it, I am sure of it, I

replied, and childish amusements please me more in this way than the

labours of men.

Still there is one thing here, I continued, which I cannot conceive:

which is, that though a place: so different from what it was, can

never have been altered to its present state; but by great care and

culture; yet I can no where discover the least trace of cultivation.

Every thing is verdant, fresh, and vigorous, and the hand of the

gardener is no where to be discerned: nothing contradicts the idea of

a desert island, which struck me at the first entrance, and I cannot

perceive any footsteps of men. Oh, said Mr. Wolmar, it is because they

have taken great pains to efface them. I have frequently been witness

to, and sometimes an accomplice in this roguery. They sow all the

cultivated spots with grass, which presently hides all appearance of

culture. In the winter, they cover all the dry and barren spots with

some lays of manure, the manure eats up the moss, revives the grass

and the plants; the trees themselves do not fare the worse, and in the

summer there is nothing of it to be seen. With regard to the moss

which covers some of the walks, Lord B---- sent us the secret of

making it grow from England. These two sides, he continued, were

inclosed with walls; the walls have been covered not with hedges, but

with thick trees, which make the boundaries of the place appear like

the beginning of a wood. The two other sides are secured by strong

thickset hedges well stocked with maple, hawthorn, holy-oak, privet,

and other small trees, which destroy the appearance of the hedges, and

make them look more like coppice-woods. You see nothing here in an

exact row, nothing level; the line never entered this place; nature

plants nothing by the line; the affective irregularity of the winding

walks are managed with art, in order to prolong the walk, to hide the

boundaries of the island, and to enlarge its extent in appearance,

without making inconvenient and too frequent turnings. [57]

Upon considering the whole, I thought it somewhat extraordinary that

they should take so much pains to conceal the labour they had been at;

would it not have been better to have taken no such pains?

Notwithstanding all we have told you, replied Eloisa, you judge of the

labour from its effect, and you deceive yourself. All that you see are

wild and vigorous plants which need only to be put into the earth, and

which afterwards spring up of themselves. Besides, nature seems

desirous of hiding her real charms from the sight of men, because they

are too little sensible of them, and disfigure them when they are

within their reach; she flies from public places; it is on the tops of

mountains, in the midst of forests, in desert islands, that she

displays her most affecting charms. They who are in love with her and

cannot go so far in pursuit of her, are forced to do her violence, by

obliging her, in some measure, to come and dwell with them, and all

this cannot be effected without some degree of illusion.

At these words, I was struck with an idea which made them laugh. I am

supposing to myself, said I, some rich man to be master of this house,

and to bring an architect who is paid an extravagant price for

spoiling nature. With what disdain would he enter this plain and

simple spot! With what contempt would he order these ragged plants to

be torn up! What fine lines he would draw! What fine walks he would

cut! What fine geese-feet, what fine trees in the shape of umbrellas

and fans he would make! What fine arbor work----nicely cut out! What

beautiful grass-plats of fine English turf, round, square, sloping,

oval! What fine yew-trees cut in the shape of dragons, pagods,

marmosets, and all sorts of monsters! With what fine vases of brass,

with what fine fruit in stone he would decorate his garden! [58] ...

When he had done all this, said Mr. Wolmar, he would have made a very

fine place, which would scarce ever be frequented, and from whence one

should always go with eagerness to enjoy the country; a dismal place

where nobody would walk, but only use it as a thoroughfare when they

were setting out to walk; whereas in my rural rambles, I often make

haste to return that I may walk here.

I see nothing in those extensive grounds so lavishly ornamented, but

the vanity of the proprietor and of the artist, who being eager to

display, one his riches and the other his talents, only contribute, at

a vast expense, to tire those who would enjoy their works. A false

taste of grandeur, which was never designed for man, poisons all his

pleasures. An air of greatness has always something melancholy in it;

it leads us to consider the wretchedness of those who affect it. In

the midst of these grass-plats and fine walks, the little individual

does not grow greater; a tree twenty feet high will shelter him as

well as one of sixty, [59] he never occupies a space of more than

three feet, and in the midst of his immense possessions he is lost

like a poor worm.

There is another taste directly opposite to this, and still more

ridiculous, because it does not allow us the pleasure of walking, for

which gardens were intended. I understand you, said I; you allude to

those petty virtuosi, who die away at the sight of a ranunculus, and

fall prostrate before a tulip. Hereupon, my Lord, I gave them an

account of what happened to me formerly at London in the flower-garden

into which we were introduced with so much ceremony, and where we saw

all the treasures of Holland displayed with so much lustre upon four

beds of dung. I did not forget the ceremony of the umbrella and the

little rod with which they honoured me, unworthy as I was, as well as

the rest of the spectators. I modestly acknowledged how, by

endeavouring to appear a virtuoso in my turn, and venturing to fall in

ecstasies at the sight of a tulip which seemed to be of a fine shape

and of a lively colour, I was mocked, hooted at, and hissed by all the

connoisseurs, and how the florist who despised the flower despised its

panegyrist likewise to that degree, that he did not even deign to look

at me all the time we were together. I added, that I supposed he

highly regretted having prostituted his rod and umbrello on one so

unworthy.

This taste, said Mr. Wolmar, when it degenerates into a passion, has

something idle and little in it, which renders it puerile and

ridiculously expensive. The other, at least, is noble, grand, and has

something real in it. But what is the value of a curious root which an

insect gnaws or spoils perhaps as soon as it is purchased, or of a

flower which is beautiful at noon day, and fades before sun-set; what

signifies a conventional beauty, which is only obvious to the eyes of

virtuosi, and which is a beauty only because they will have it to be

so? The time will come when they will require different kinds of

beauty in flowers, from that which they seek after at present, and

with as good reason; then you will be the connoisseur in your turn,

and your virtuoso will appear ignorant. All these trifling attentions,

which degenerate into a kind of study, are unbecoming a rational

being, who, would keep his body in moderate exercise, or relieve his

mind by amusing himself in a walk with his friends. Flowers were made

to delight our eyes as we pass along, and not to be so curiously

anatomized. [60] See the queen of them shine in every part of the

orchard. It perfumes the air; it ravishes the eyes, and costs neither

care nor culture. It is for this reason that florists despise it;

nature has made it so lovely, that they cannot add to it any borrowed

beauty, and as they cannot plague themselves with cultivating it, they

find nothing in it which flatters their fancy. The mistake of your

pretenders to taste is, that they are desirous of introducing art in

every thing, and are never satisfied unless the art appears; whereas

true taste consists in concealing it, especially when it concerns any

of the works of nature. To what purpose are those strait gravelled

walks which we meet with continually; and those stars which are so far

from making a park appear more extensive to the view, as is commonly

supposed, that they only contribute awkwardly to discover its

boundaries? Do you ever see fine gravel in woods, or is that kind of

gravel softer to the feet than moss or down? Does nature constantly

make use of the square or rule? Are they afraid lest she be visible in

some spot notwithstanding all their care to disfigure her? Upon the

whole, it is droll enough to see them affect to walk in a strait line

that they may sooner reach the end, as if they were tired of walking,

before they have well begun? Would not one imagine, by their taking

the shortest cut, that they were going a journey instead of a walk,

and that they were in a hurry to get out as soon they come in?

How will a man of taste act, who lives to relish life, who knows how

to enjoy himself, who pursues real and simple pleasures, and who is

inclined to make a walk before his house? He will make it so

convenient and agreeable that he may enjoy it every hour of the day,

and yet so natural and simple, that it will seem as if he had done

nothing. He will introduce water, and will make the walk verdant,

cool, and shady; for nature herself unites these properties. He will

bestow no attention on symmetry, which is the bane of nature and

variety, and the walks of gardens in general are so like each other,

that we always fancy ourselves in the same. He will make the ground

smooth, in order to walk more conveniently; but the two sides of his

walks will not be exactly parallel; their direction will not always be

recti-lineal, they will be somewhat irregular like the steps of an

indolent man, who saunters in his walk: he will not be anxious about

opening distant perspectives. The taste for perspective and distant

views proceeds from the disposition of men in general, who are never

satisfied with the place where they are. They are always desirous of

what is distant from them, and the artist who cannot make them

contented with the objects around them, flies to this resource to

amuse them; but such a man as I speak of, is under no such

inquietudes, and when he is agreeably fixed, he does not desire to be

elsewhere. Here, for example, we have no prospect, and we are very

well satisfied without any. We are willing to think that all the

charms of nature are inclosed here, and I should be very much afraid

lest a distant view should take off a good deal of the beauty from

this walk. [61] Certainly he who would not chuse to pass his days in

this simple and pleasant place, is not master of true taste or of a

vigorous mind. I confess that one ought not to make a parade of

bringing strangers hither; but then we can enjoy it ourselves, without

shewing it to any one.

Sir, said I, these rich people who have such fine gardens, have very

good reasons for not choosing to walk alone, or to be in company with

themselves only; therefore they are in the right to lay them out for

the pleasure of others. Besides, I have seen gardens in China, made

after your taste, and laid out with so much art that the art was not

seen, but in such a costly manner, and kept up at such a vast expense,

that that single idea destroyed all the pleasure I had in viewing

them. There were rocks, grottos, and artificial cascades in level and

sandy places, where there was nothing but spring-water; there were

flowers and curious plants of all the climates in China and Tartary,

collected and cultivated in the same soil. It is true, there were no

fine walks or regular compartments; but you might see curiosities

heaped together with profusion, which in nature are only to be found

separate and scattered. Nature was there represented under a thousand

various forms, and yet the whole taken together was not natural. Here

neither earth nor stones are transplanted, you have neither pumps nor

reservoirs, you have no occasion for green-houses or stoves, of bell

glasses or straw-beds. A plain spot of ground has been improved by a

few simple ornaments. A few common herbs and trees, and a few purling

streams which flow without pomp or constraint, have contributed to

embellish it. It is an amusement, which has cost little trouble, and

the simplicity of it is an additional pleasure to the beholder. I can

conceive that this place might be made still more agreeable, and yet

be infinitely less pleasing to me. Such, for example, is Lord Cobham’s

celebrated park at Stow. It consists of places extremely beautiful and

picturesque, modelled after the fashion of different countries, and in

which every thing appears natural except their conjunction, as in the

gardens of China, which I just now mentioned. The proprietor who made

this stately solitude, has even erected ruins, temples, old buildings,

and different ages as well as different places are collected with more

than mortal magnificence. This is the very thing I dislike. I would

have the amusements of mankind carry an air of ease with them which

does not put one in mind of their weakness, and that while we admire

these curiosities our imagination may not be disturbed by reflecting

on the vast sums of money and labour they have cost. Are we not

destined to trouble enough, without making our amusements a fatigue?

I have but one objection, I added, looking at Eloisa, to make to your

elysium, but which you will probably think of some weight, which is,

that it is a superfluous amusement. To what purpose was it to make a

new walk, when you have such beautiful groves on the other side of the

house which you neglect? That’s true, said she, somewhat disconcerted,

but I like this better. If you had thoroughly reflected on the

propriety of your question before you had made it, said Mr. Wolmar,

interrupting us, it might be imputed to you as more than an

indiscretion. My wife has never set her foot in those groves since she

has been married. I know the reason though she has always kept it a

secret from me. You who are no stranger to it, learn to respect the

spot where you are; it has been planted by the hands of virtue.

I had scarce received this just reprimand, but the little family led

by Fanny, came in as we were going out. These three lovely children

threw themselves round Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s necks. I likewise shared

their little caresses. Eloisa and I returned into elysium to take a

little turn with them; afterwards we went to join Mr. Wolmar who was

talking to some workmen. In our way, she told me, that she no sooner

became a mother, than an idea struck into her mind, with respect to

that walk, which increased her zeal for embellishing it. I had an eye,

said she, to the health and amusement of my children as they grew

older. It requires more care than labour to keep up this place; it is

more essential to give a certain turn to the branches of the plants,

than to dig and cultivate the ground; I intend one day to make

gardeners of my little ones: they shall have sufficient exercise to

strengthen their constitution, and not enough to enfeeble it. Besides,

what is too much for their age, shall be done by others, and they

shall confine themselves to such little works as may amuse them. I

cannot describe, she added, what pleasure I enjoy in imagining my

infants busy in returning those little attentions which I now bestow

on them with such satisfaction, and the joy of which their tender

hearts will be susceptible, when they see their mother walking with

delight under the shades, which have been formed by their own hands.

In truth, my friend, said she, with an affecting tone, time thus spent

is an emblem of the felicity of the next world, and it was not without

reason that, reflecting on these scenes, I christened this place

before hand by the name of elysium. My Lord, this incomparable woman

is as amiable in the character of a mother as in that of a wife, a

friend, a daughter, and to the eternal punishment of my soul, she was

thus lovely when my mistress.

Transported with this delightful place, I intreated them in the

evening to consent that, during my stay, Fanny should entrust me with

her key, and consign to me the office of feeding the birds. Eloisa

immediately sent a sack of grain to my chamber, and gave me her own

key. I cannot tell for what reason, but I accepted it with a kind of

concern, and it seemed as if Mr. Wolmar’s would have been more

acceptable to me.

In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child,

went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I

hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect

of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that

new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects

around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about

me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has

not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I

shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed;

the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her

charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear

the Eloisa of my soul.

As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected

the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same

spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole

frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I

expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my

imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time

since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared

to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she

appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that

amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train

which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children,

those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender

friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting

embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so

beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity. I imagined that I could

perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom

of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter

reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I

had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively

instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent

passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through

such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the

shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and

how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing

scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled

to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my

imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to

contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her

children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart,

which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature.

There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what

contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul

with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive

passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her

mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made

choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled

conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul,

as in this asylum which she has named.

I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there

were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in

elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In

observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived

that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections,

which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with

one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t

know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that

one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to

do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles

may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind

with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all

internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the

advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who

has purchased them, knows what they cost.

_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno

Si legesse in fronte scritto

Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno

Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]

As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and

acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you

yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming

sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I

went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief

done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s

true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose

the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted

into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is

the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never

appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our

secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the

delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the

only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are;

why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say;

this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I

learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to

their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether

Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much,

not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of

her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?

Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my

protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from

the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me

from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel

instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as

against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had

I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less

on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to

blush at my sentiments.

Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your

friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon

dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare

believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara,

attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your

advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.

During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most

perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know

that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and

that having received him from a father as solicitous for his

daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never

expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought

proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my

honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me

estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I

was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a

stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no

occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him

as much as possible.

This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before

the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the

country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods,

and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life

commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent

palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if

shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which

dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the

interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do

not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time

after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance

pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave

me.

On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards

me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause,

taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to

perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may

be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common

good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of

approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you

are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and

though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no

secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.

He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto

been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it,

you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master

of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six

years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks

too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal

it.

I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my

life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my

adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their

nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily

imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my

affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they

reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid

them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the

true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of

pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those

interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of

others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in

distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for

when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active

principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the

accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined

together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or

like a piece well represented on the stage. If I have any ruling

passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of

mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with

a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some

sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments;

this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love

receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part,

but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me

for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could

alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would

willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind

does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be

seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are

necessary, to me.

The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of

observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more

in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to,

and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By

quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured

myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and

which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a

desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into

the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness

of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having

killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty.

The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to

give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me

with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to

return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day

grown stronger. I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that

interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which

influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which

are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable

to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a

kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad

according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on

customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human

policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain

notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the

different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them

together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed

in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if

we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in

order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify

myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I

stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever

condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her

gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she

might have expected.

Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent

philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which

I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of

improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from

nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of

contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative,

attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of

this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was

always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape

it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of

some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me,

afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I

experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to

the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I

myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of

matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a

husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of

my family. It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to

supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter

to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of

mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to

it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come

and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman

will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I

found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports,

the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or

rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the

impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations

are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years

absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the

state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a

return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear

Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets

had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded

me, knowing me to be the property of another.

This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended

against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and

my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself

into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing

but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to

restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise.

This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every

thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from

temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as

soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways

alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but

once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion

had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I

took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All

great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason

never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our

passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the

ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms

the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of

passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their

own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.

You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one,

I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was

guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect

of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of

making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were

essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre-

engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but

the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression

which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to

make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to

render you truly estimable.

Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion

of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection,

which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was

impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life

half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single

impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself

with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my

tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought

that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish;

I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you

observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent

conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I

copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one

day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your

tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular;

you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of

a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy

companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my

dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.

At these words, in spite of all my endeavours not to interrupt him but

by my tears, I could not forbear throwing myself round his neck, and

crying out; O my dear husband! O thou best and most amiable of men!

Tell me what is wanting to compleat my happiness, but to promote your

felicity, and to be more deserving... You are as happy as you can be,

said he, interrupting me; you deserve to be so; but it is time to

enjoy that felicity in peace, which has hitherto cost you such vast

pains. If your fidelity had been all I required, that would have been

ensured the moment you made me the promise; I wanted moreover to make

it easy and agreeable to you, and we have both laboured to this end in

concert, without communicating our views to each other. Eloisa, we

have succeeded; better than you imagine perhaps. The only fault I find

in you is, that you do not resume that confidence which you have a

right to repose in yourself, and that you undervalue your own worth.

Extreme diffidence is as dangerous as excessive confidence. As that

rashness which prompts us to attempts beyond our strength renders our

power ineffectual, so that timidity which prevents us from relying on

ourselves, renders it useless. True prudence consists in being

thoroughly acquainted with the measure of our own power, and acting up

to it. You have acquired an increase of strength by changing your

condition. You are no longer that unfortunate girl who bewailed the

weakness she indulged; you are the most virtuous of women, you are

bound by no laws but those of honour and duty, and the only fault that

can now be imputed to you, is that you retain too lively a sense of

your former indiscretion. Instead of taking reproachful precautions

against yourself, learn to depend upon your self, and your confidence

will increase your strength. Banish that injurious diffidence, and

think yourself happy in having made choice of an honest man at an age

which is liable to imposition, and in having entertained a lover

formerly, whom you may now enjoy as a friend, even under your

husband’s eye. I was no sooner made acquainted with your connections,

than I judged of you by each other. I perceived what enthusiastic

delusion led you astray; it never operates but on susceptible minds;

it sometimes ruins them, but it is by a charm which has power to

seduce them alone. I judged that the same turn of mind which formed

your attachment would break it as soon as it became criminal, and that

vice might find an entrance, but never take root in such hearts as

yours.

I conceived moreover that the connection between you ought not to be

broken; that there were so many laudable circumstances attending your

mutual attachment, that it ought rather to be rectified than

destroyed; and that neither of the two could forget the other, without

diminishing their own worth. I knew that great struggles only served

to inflame strong passions, and that if violent efforts exercised the

mind, they occasioned such torments as by their continuance might

subdue it. I took advantage of Eloisa’s gentleness, to moderate the

severity of her reflections. I nourished her friendship for you, said

he to St. Preux; I banished all immoderate passion, and I believe that

I have preserved you a greater share of her affections, than she would

have left you, had I abandoned her entirely to herself.

My success encouraged me, and I determined to attempt your cure as I

had accomplished hers; for I had an esteem for you, and

notwithstanding the prejudices of vice, I have always observed that

every good end is to be obtained from susceptible minds by means of

confidence and sincerity. I saw you, you did not deceive me; you will

not deceive me; and though you are not yet what you ought to be, I

find you more improved than you imagine, and I am better satisfied

with you than you are with yourself. I know that my conduct has an

extravagant appearance, and is repugnant to the common received

principles. But maxims become less general, in proportion as we are

better acquainted with the human heart: and Eloisa’s husband ought not

to act like men in common. My dear children, said he, with a tone the

more affecting as it came from a dispassionate man; remain what you

are, and we shall all be happy. Danger consists chiefly in opinion; be

not afraid of yourselves, and you will have nothing to apprehend; only

think on the present, and I will answer for the future. I cannot

communicate any thing farther to day, but if my schemes succeed, and

my hopes do not betray me, our destiny will be better fulfilled, and

you two will be much happier than if you had enjoyed each other.

As we rose, he embraced us, and would have us likewise embrace each

other, on that spot. On that very spot where formerly... Clara, O my

dear Clara, how dearly have you ever loved me! I made no resistance.

Alas! How indiscreet would it have been to have made any! This kiss

was nothing like that which rendered the grove terrible to me. I

silently congratulated myself, and I found that my heart was more

changed than I had hitherto ventured to imagine.

As we were walking towards home, my husband, taking me by the hand,

stopt me, and shewing me the wood we had just left, he said to me

smiling; Eloisa, be no longer afraid of this asylum; it has not been

lately profaned. You will not believe me, cousin, but I swear that he

has some supernatural gift of reading one’s inmost thoughts: may

heaven continue it to him! Having such reason to despise myself, it is

certainly to this art that I am indebted for his indulgence.

You do not see yet any occasion I have for your advice; patience, my

angel! I am coming to that point; but the conversation which I have

related, was necessary to clear up what follows.

On our return, my husband, who has long been expected at Etange, told

me that he proposed going thither to-morrow, that he should see you in

his way, and that he should stay there five or six days. Without

saying all I thought concerning such an ill-timed journey, I told him

that I imagined the necessity was not so indispensable as to oblige

Mr. Wolmar to leave his guest, whom he had himself invited to his

house. Would you have me, he replied, use ceremony with him to remind

him that he is not at home? I am like the Valaisians for hospitality.

I hope he will find their sincerity here, and allow us to use their

freedom. Perceiving that he would not understand me, I took another

method, and endeavoured to persuade our guest to take the journey with

him. You will find a spot, said I, which has its beauties, and such as

you are fond of; you will visit my patrimony and that of my ancestors;

the interest you take in every thing which concerns me, will not allow

me to suppose that such a sight can be indifferent to you. My mouth

was open to add that the castle was like that of Lord B----, who...

but luckily I had time to bite my tongue. He answered me coolly that I

was in the right, and that he would do as I pleased. But Mr. Wolmar,

who seemed determined to drive me to an extremity, replied that he

should do what was most agreeable to himself. Which do you like best,

to go or to stay? To stay, said he, without hesitating. Well, stay

then, rejoined my husband, taking him by the hand: you are a sincere

and honest man, and I am well pleased with that declaration. There was

no room for much altercation between my husband and me, in the hearing

of this third person. I was silent, but could not conceal my

uneasiness so well, but my husband perceived it. What! said he, with

an air of discontent, St. Preux being at a little distance from us,

shall I have pleaded your cause against yourself in vain, and will

Mrs. Wolmar remain satisfied with a virtue which depends on

opportunity? For my part, I am more nice; I will be indebted for the

fidelity of my wife, to her affection, not to chance; and it is not

enough that she is constant, it wounds my delicacy to think that she

should doubt her constancy.

At length, he took us into his closet, where I was extremely surprized

to see him take from a drawer, along with the copies of some of our

friend’s correspondences which I delivered to him, the very original

letters which I thought I had seen burned by B---- in my mother’s

room. Here, said he to me, shewing them to us, are the pledges of my

security; if they deceive me, it would be a folly to depend on any

thing which concerns human nature. I consign my wife and my honour in

charge to her, who, when single and seduced, preferred an act of

benevolence, to a secure and private rendezvous. I trust Eloisa, now

that she is a wife and a mother, to him who, when he had it in his

power to gratify his desires, yet knew how to respect Eloisa when

single and a fond girl. If either of you think so meanly of

yourselves, as to suppose that I am in the wrong, say so, and I

retract this instant. Cousin, do you think that one could easily

venture to make answer to such a speech?

I nevertheless sought an opportunity in the afternoon of speaking with

my husband in private, and without entering into reasons which I was

not at liberty to urge, I only intreated him to put off his journey

for two days. My request was granted immediately; and I employ the

time, in sending you this express and waiting for your answer, to know

how I am to act.

I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who

never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But

I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he

reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem,

if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he

allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux,

and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what

will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step

without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might

seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am

afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it

absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most

easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole

however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in

competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact?

This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.

The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to

encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no

symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which

passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble.

Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion

tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these

recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who

was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent

since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet,

I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to

think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of

virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the

horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments

which virtue has extinguished.

But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when

reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on

my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not

an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have

so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride

which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers

which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to

yield again to temptation?