But what appears to me the most singular in her moderation, is that

she pursues it for the very same reasons which hurry the voluptuous

into excess. Life is indeed short, says she, which is a reason for

enjoying it to the end, and managing its duration in such a manner as

to make the most of it. If one day’s indulgence and satiety deprives

us of a whole year’s taste for enjoyment, it is bad philosophy to

pursue our desires so far as they may be ready to lead us, without

considering whether we may not out-live our faculties, and our hearts

be exhausted before our time. I see that your common epicures, in

order to let slip no opportunity of enjoyment, lose all; and,

perpetually anxious in the midst of pleasures, can find no enjoyment

in any. They lavish away the time of which they think they are

economists, and ruin themselves, like misers, by not knowing how to

give any thing away. For my part, I hold the opposite maxim; and

should prefer, in this case, rather too much severity than relaxation.

It sometimes happens that I break up a party of pleasure, for no other

reason than that it is too agreeable; and, by repeating it another

time, have the satisfaction of enjoying it twice.

Upon such principles are the sweets of life, and the pleasures of mere

amusement, regulated here. Amidst her various application to the

several branches of her domestic employment, Eloisa takes particular

care that the kitchen is not neglected. Her table is spread with

abundance; but it is not the destructive abundance of fantastic

luxury: all the viands are common, but excellent, in their kind; the

cookery is simple, but exquisite. All that consists in appearance

only, whose nicety depends on the fashion, all your delicate and far-

fetched dishes, whose scarcity is their only value, are banished from

the table of Eloisa. Among the most delicious also of those which are

admitted, they daily abstain from some; which they reserve in order to

give an air of festivity to those meals for which they were intended,

and which are thereby rendered more agreeable, without being more

costly. But of what kind, think you, are these dishes which are so

carefully husbanded? Choice game? Sea-fish? Foreign produce? No.

Something better than all that. They are perhaps a particular choice

salad of the country; fine greens of our own gardens; fish of the

lake, dressed in a peculiar manner; cheese from the mountains; a

German party, or game caught by some of the domestics. The table is

served in a modest and rural but agreeable manner, chearfulness and

gratitude crowning the whole. Your gilt covers, round which the guests

sit starving with hunger; your pompous glasses, stuck out with flowers

for the desert, are never introduced here, to take up the place

intended for victuals; we are entirely ignorant of the art of

satisfying hunger by the eye. But then no where do they so well know

how to add welcome to good chear, to eat a good deal without eating

too much, to drink chearfully without intoxication, to sit so long at

table without being tired, and to rise from it without disgust. On the

first floor there is a little dining room, different from that in

which we usually dine, which is on the ground floor. This room is

built in the corner of the house, and has windows in two aspects:

those on one side over-look the garden, beyond which we have a

prospect of the lake between the trees: on the other side, we have a

fine view of a spacious vineyard, that begins to display the golden

harvest which we shall reap in about two months. This room is small,

but ornamented with every thing that can render it pleasant and

agreeable. It is here Eloisa gives her little entertainments to her

father, to her husband, to her cousin, to me, to herself, and

sometimes to her children. When she orders the table to be spread

there, we know immediately the design; and Mr. Wolmar has given it the

name of the Saloon of Apollo: but this Saloon differs no less from

that of Lucullus, in the choice of the persons entertained, than in

that of the entertainment. Common guests are not admitted into it; we

never dine there, when there are any strangers: it is the inviolable

asylum of mutual confidence, friendship and liberty. The society of

hearts is there joined to the social bond of the table; the entrance

into it is a kind of initiation into the mysteries of a cordial

intimacy; nor do any persons ever meet there but such as wish never to

be separated. We wait impatiently for you, my Lord, who are to dine

the very first day in the Apollo.

For my part, I was not at first admitted to that honour, which was

reserved for me till after my return from Mrs. Orbe’s. Not that I

imagined they could add any thing to the obliging reception I met with

on my arrival; but the supper, made for me there, gave me other ideas.

It is impossible to describe the delightful mixture of familiarity,

chearfulness, and social ease, which I then experienced, and had never

before tasted in my whole life. I found myself more at liberty without

being told to assume it, and we seemed even to understand one another

much better than before. The absence of the domestics, who were

dismissed from their attendance, removed that reserve which I still

felt at heart; and it was then that I first, at the instance of

Eloisa, resumed the custom I had laid aside for many years, of

drinking wine after meals.

I was enraptured at this repast, and wished that all our meals might

have been made in the same manner. I knew nothing of this delightful

room, said I to Mrs. Wolmar; why don’t you always eat here? See,

replied she, how pretty it is! Would it not be a pity to spoil it?

This answer seemed too much out of character for me not to suspect she

had some farther meaning. But why, added I, have you not the same

conveniences below, that the servants might be sent away, and leave us

to talk more at liberty? That, replied she, would be too agreeable,

and the trouble of being always at ease is the greatest in the world.

I immediately comprehended her system by this, and concluded that her

art of managing her pleasures consisted in being sparing of them.

I think she dresses herself with more care than formerly; the only

piece of vanity I ever reproached her for, being that of neglecting

her dress. The haughty fair one had her reasons, and left me no

pretext to disown her power. But, do all she could, my enchantment was

too strong for me to think it natural; I was too obstinate in

attributing her negligence to art. Not that the power of her charms is

diminished; but she now disdains to exert it; and I should be apt to

say, she affected a greater neatness in her dress that she might

appear only a pretty woman, had I not discovered the reason for her

present solicitude in this point. During the first two or three days I

was mistaken; for, not reflecting that she was dressed in the same

manner at my arrival, which was unexpected, I thought she had done it

out of respect to me. I was undeceived, however, in the absence of Mr.

Wolmar. For the next day she was not attired with that elegance, which

so eminently distinguished her the preceding evening, nor with that

affecting and voluptuous simplicity which formerly enchanted me; but

with a certain modesty that speaks through the eyes to the heart, that

inspires respect only, and to which beauty itself but gives additional

authority. The dignity of wife and mother appeared in all her charms;

the timid and affectionate looks she cast on me, were now mixed with

an air of gravity and grandeur, which seemed to cast a veil over her

features. In the mean time, she betrayed not the least alteration in

her behaviour; her equality of temper, her candor knew nothing of

affectation. She practiced only a talent natural to her sex, to change

sometimes our sentiments and ideas of them, by a different dress, by

a cap of this form, or a gown of that colour. The day on which she

expected her husband’s return, she again found the art of adorning her

natural charms without hiding them; she came from her toilet indeed a

dazzling beauty, and I saw she was not less capable to outshine the

most splendid dress, than to adorn the most simple. I could not help

being vexed, when I reflected on the cause of her preparation.

This taste for ornament extends itself, from the mistress of the

house, through all the family. The master, the children, the servants,

the equipage, the building, the garden, the furniture, are all set off

and kept in such order as shews what they are capable of, though

magnificence is despised:----I do not mean true magnificence, and

which consists less in the expense, than in the good order and noble

disposition of things. [76]

For my own part, I must confess it appears to me a more grand and

noble sight, to see a small number of people happy in themselves and

in each other, in a plain modest family, than to see the most splendid

palace filled with tumult and discord, and every one of its

inhabitants taking advantage of the general disorder, and building up

their own fortunes and happiness on the ruin of another. A well-

governed private family forms a single object, agreeable and

delightful to contemplate; whereas, in a riotous palace, we see only a

confused assemblage of various objects, whose connection and

dependence are merely apparent. At first sight, indeed, they seem

operating to one end; but in examining them nearer, we are soon

undeceived.

To consult only our most natural impressions, it should seem that, to

despise luxury and parade, we need less of moderation than of taste.

Symmetry and regularity are pleasing to every one. The picture of ease

and happiness must affect every heart; but a vain pomp, which relates

neither to regularity nor happiness, and has only the desire of making

a figure in the eyes of others for its object, however favourable an

idea it may excite in us of the person who displays it, can give

little pleasure to the spectator. But what is taste? Does not a

hundred times more taste appear in the order and construction of plain

and simple things, than in those which are over-loaded with finery?

What is convenience? Is any thing in the world more inconvenient than

pomp and pageantry? [77] What is grandeur? It is precisely the

contrary. When I see the intention of an architect to build a large

palace, I immediately ask myself why it is not larger? Why does not

the man, who keeps fifty servants, if he aims at grandeur, keep an

hundred? That fine silver plate, why is it not gold? The man who gilds

his chariot, why does he not also gild the ceiling of his apartment?

If his ceilings are gilt, why does not gild the roof too? He, who was

desirous of building an high tower, was right in his intention to

raise it up to heaven; otherwise it was to no purpose to build, as the

point where he might at last stop, would only serve to shew, at the

greater distance, his want of ability. O man! vain and feeble

creature! Shew me thy power, and I will shew thee thy misery!

A regularity in the disposal of things, every one of which is of real

use, and all confined to the necessaries of life, not only presents an

agreeable prospect but as it pleases the eye, at the same time gives

content to the heart. For a man views them always in a pleasing light,

as relating to and sufficient for himself. The picture of his own

wants or weakness does not appear, nor does the chearful prospect

affect him with sorrowful reflections. I defy any sensible man to

contemplate, for an hour, the palace of a prince, and the pomp which

reigns there, without falling into melancholy reflections, and

bemoaning the lot of humanity. On the contrary, the prospect of this

house, with the uniform and simple life of its inhabitants, diffuse

over the mind of the spectator a secret pleasure, which is perpetually

increasing. A small number of good-natured people, united by their

mutual wants and reciprocal benevolence, concur by their different

employments in promoting the same end; every one, finding in his

situation all that is requisite to contentment, and not desiring to

change it, applies himself as if he thought to stay here all his life;

the only ambition among them being that of properly discharging their

respective duties. There is so much moderation in those who command,

and so much zeal in those who obey, that equals might agree to

distribute the same employments among them, without any one having

reason to complain of his lot. No one envies that of another; no one

thinks of augmenting his fortune, but by adding to the common good:

the master and mistress estimating their own happiness by that of

their domestics and the people about them. One finds here nothing to

add or diminish, because here is nothing, but what is useful, and that

indeed is all that is to be found; insomuch that nothing is wanted

which may not be had, and of that there is always a sufficiency.

Suppose, now, to all this were added, lace, pictures, lustres,

gilding; in a moment you would impoverish the scene. In seeing so much

abundance in things necessary, and no mark of superfluity, one is now

apt to think, that if those things were the objects of choice, which

are not here, they would be had in the same abundance. In seeing also

so plentiful a provision made for the poor, one is led to say, This

house cannot contain its wealth. This seems to me to be true

magnificence.

Such marks of opulence, however, surprized me, when I first heard what

fortune must support it. You are ruining yourselves, said I to Mr. and

Mrs. Wolmar; it is impossible so moderate a revenue can supply so much

expense. They laughed at me, and soon convinced me, that, without

retrenching any of their family expenses, they could, if they pleased,

lay up money and increase their estate, instead of diminishing it. Our

grand secret, to grow rich, said they, is to have as little to do with

money as possible, and to avoid, as much as may be, those intermediate

exchanges, which are made between the harvest and the consumption.

None of those exchanges are made without some loss; and such losses,

if multiplied, would reduce a very good estate to little or nothing,

as by means of brokerage a valuable gold box may fetch in a sale the

price only of a trifling toy. The expense of transporting our produce

is avoided, by making use of some part on the spot, and that of

exchange, by using others in their natural state. And as for the

indispensable necessity of converting those in which we abound for

such as we want, instead of making pecuniary bargains, we endeavour to

make real exchanges, in which the convenience of both parties supplies

the place of profit.

I conceive, answered I, the advantages of this method; but it does not

appear to me without inconvenience. For, besides the trouble to which

it must subject you, the profit must be rather apparent than real, and

what you lose in the management of your own estate, probably over-

balances the profits the farmers would make of you. The peasants are

better economists, both in the expenses of cultivation, and in

gathering their produce, than you can be. That, replied, Mr. Wolmar,

is a mistake; the peasant thinks less of augmenting the produce than

of sparing his expenses, because the cost is more difficult for him to

raise than the profits are useful. The tenant’s view is not so much to

increase the value of the land, as to lay out but little on it; and if

he depends on any certain gain, it is less by improving the soil, than

exhausting it. The best that can happen, is, that instead of

exhausting, he quite neglects it. Thus, for the sake of a little ready

money, gathered in with ease, an indolent proprietor prepares for

himself, or his children, great losses, much trouble, and sometimes

the ruin of his patrimony.

I do not deny, continued Mr. Wolmar, that I am at a much greater

expense in the cultivation of my land, than a farmer would be; but

then I myself reap the profit of his labour, and the culture being

much better than his, my crop is proportionably larger: so that,

though I am at a greater expense, I am still, upon the whole, a

gainer. Besides, this excess of expense is only apparent, and is, in

reality, productive of great economy; for, were we to let out our

lands for others to cultivate, we should be ourselves idle: we must

live in town, where the necessaries of life are dear; we must have

amusements, that would cost us much more than those we take here. The

business, which you call a trouble, is at once our duty and our

delight; and, thanks to the regulation it is under, is never

troublesome: on the contrary, it serves to employ us, instead of those

destructive schemes of pleasure, which people in town run into, and

which a country life prevents, whilst that which contributes to our

happiness becomes our amusement.

Look round you, continued he, and you will see nothing but what is

useful; yet all these things cost little, and save a world of

unnecessary expense. Our table is furnished with nothing but viands of

our own growth; our dress and furniture are almost all composed of the

manufactures of the country: nothing is despised with us because it is

common, nor held in esteem because it is scarce. As every thing, that

comes from abroad, is liable to be disguised and adulterated, we

confine ourselves, as well through nicety as moderation, to the choice

of the best home commodities, the quality of which is less dubious.

Our viands are plain, but choice; and nothing is wanting to make ours

a sumptuous table, but the transporting it a hundred leagues off; in

which case every thing would be delicate, every thing would be rare,

and even our trouts of the lake would be thought infinitely better,

were they to be eaten at Paris.

We observe the same rule in the choice of our apparel, which you see

is not neglected; but its elegance is the only thing we study, and not

its cost, and much less its fashion. There is a wide difference

between the price of opinion and real value. The latter, however, is

all that Eloisa regards; in choosing a gown, she enquires not so much

whether the pattern be old or new, as whether the stuff be good and

becoming. The novelty of it is even sometimes the cause of her

rejecting it, especially when it enhances the price, by giving it an

imaginary value.

You should further consider, that the effect of every thing here

arises less from itself than from its use, and its dependencies;

insomuch that out of parts of little value, Eloisa has compounded a

whole of great value. Taste delights in creating and stamping upon

things a value of its own: as the laws of fashion are inconstant and

destructive, hers is economical and lasting.

What true taste once approves must be always good, and though it be

seldom in the mode, it is, on the other hand, never improper. Thus, in

her modest simplicity, she deduces, from the use and fitness of

things, such sure and unalterable rules, as will stand their ground

when the vanity of fashions is no more. The abundance of mere

necessaries can never degenerate into abuse; for what is necessary has

its natural bounds, and our real wants know no excess. One may lay out

the price of twenty suits of cloaths in buying one, and eat up at a

meal the income of a whole year; but we cannot wear two suits at one

time, nor dine twice the same day. Thus the caprice of opinion is

boundless, whereas nature confines us on all sides; and he, who, with

a moderate fortune, contents himself with living well, will run no

risk of ruin.

Hence, you see, continued the prudent Wolmar, in what manner a little

economy and industry may lift us out of the reach of fortune. It

depends only on ourselves to increase ours, without changing our

manner of living; for we advance nothing but with a view of profit,

and whatever we expend puts us soon in a condition to expend much

more.

And yet, my Lord, nothing of all this appears at first sight: the

general air of affluence, and profusion, hides that order and

regularity to which it is owing. One must be here some time to

perceive those sumptuary laws, which are productive of so much ease

and pleasure; and it is with difficulty that one at first comprehends

how they enjoy what they spare. On reflection, however, one’s

satisfaction increases, because it is plain that the source is

inexhaustible, and that the art of enjoying life serves at the same

time to prolong it. How can any one be weary of a state so conformable

to that of nature? How can he waste his inheritance by improving it

every day? How ruin his fortune, by spending only his income? When one

year provides for the next, what can disturb the peace of the present?

The fruits of their past labour support their present abundance, and

those of their present labour provide a future plenty: they enjoy at

once what is expended and what is received, and both past and future

times unite in the security of the present.

I have looked into all the particulars of domestic management, and

find the same spirit extend itself throughout the whole. All their

lace and embroidery are worked in the house; all their cloth is spun

at home, or by poor women supported by their charity. Their wool is

sent to the manufactories of the country, from whence they receive

cloth, in exchange, for cloathing the servants. Their wine, oil, and

bread, are all made at home; and they have woods, of which they cut

down regularly what is necessary for firing. The butcher is paid in

cattle, the grocer in corn, for the nourishment of his family; the

wages of the workmen and the servants are paid out of the produce of

the lands they cultivate; the rent of their houses in town serves to

furnish those they inhabit in the country; the interest of their money

in the public funds furnishes a subsistence for the masters, and also

the little plate they have occasion for. The sale of the corn and

wine, which remain, furnishes a fund for extraordinary expenses; a

fund which Eloisa’s prudence will never permit to be exhausted, and

which her charity will not suffer to increase. She allows for matters

of mere amusement the profits, only, of the labour done in the house,

of the grubbing up uncultivated land, of planting trees, &c. Thus the

produce and the labour always compensating each other, the balance

cannot be disturbed; and it is impossible, from the nature of things,

it should be destroyed.

Add to this, that the abstinence, which Eloisa imposes on herself,

through that voluptuous temperance I have mentioned, is at once

productive of new means of pleasure, and new resources of economy. For

example, she is very fond of coffee, and, when her mother was living,

drank it every day. But she has left off that practice, in order to

heighten her taste for it, now drinking it only when she has company,

or in her favourite dining room, in order to give her entertainments

the air of a treat. This is a little indulgence which is the more

agreeable, as it costs her little, and at the same time restrains and

regulates her appetite. On the contrary, she studies to discover and

gratify the taste of her father and husband with an unwearied

attention; a charming prodigality which makes them like every thing so

much the more, for the pleasure they see she takes in providing it.

They both love to sit a little after meals, in the manner of the

Swiss; on which occasions, particularly after supper, she never fails

to treat them with a bottle of wine more old and delicate than common.

I was at first deceived by the fine names she gave to her wines,

which, in sac, I found to be extremely good; and, drinking them as

wines of the growth of the countries whose names they bore, I took

Eloisa to task for so manifest a breach of her own maxims; but she

laughed at me and put me in mind of a passage in Plutarch, where

Flaminius compares the Asiatic troops of Antiochus, distinguished by a

thousand barbarous names, to the several ragouts under which a friend

of his had disguised one and the same kind of meat. It is just so,

said she, with these foreign wines. The Lisbon, the Sherry, the

Malaga, the Champagne, the Syracuse, which you have drank here with so

much pleasure, are all, in fact, no other than wines of this country,

and you see from hence the vineyard that produced them. If they are

inferior in quality to the celebrated wines, whose names they bear,

they are also without their inconveniences; and as one is certain of

the materials of which they are composed, they may be drank with less

danger. I have reason to believe, continued she, that my father and

husband like them as well as more scarce and costly wines. Eloisa’s

wines, indeed, says Mr. Wolmar to me, have a taste which pleases us

better than any others, and that arises from the pleasure she takes in

preparing them. Ah! returned she, then they will be always exquisite.

You will judge whether, amidst such a variety of business, that

indolence and want of employment, which make company, visitings, and

such formal society necessary, can find any place here. We visit our

neighbours, indeed, just enough to keep up an agreeable acquaintance,

but too little to be slaves to each other’s company. Our guests are

always welcome, but are never invited or intreated. The rule here is

to see just so much company as to prevent the losing a taste for

retirement; rural occupation supplying the place of amusements: and to

him, who finds an agreeable and peaceful society in his own family,

all other company is insipid. The manner, however, in which we pass

our time, is too simple and uniform to tempt many people, but it is

the disposition of those, who have adopted it, that makes it

delightful. How can persons of a sound mind be wearied with

discharging the most endearing and pleasing duties of humanity, and

with rendering each other’s lives mutually happy? Satisfied every

night with the transactions of the day, Eloisa wishes for nothing

different on the morrow. Her constant morning prayer is, that the

present day may prove like the past. She is engaged perpetually in the

same round of business, because no alteration would give her more

pleasure. Thus, without doubt, she enjoys all the happiness of which

human life is capable: for is not our being pleased with the

continuation of our lot a certain sign that we are happy? One seldom

sees in this place those knots of idle people, which are usually

called good company; but then one beholds those who interest our

affections infinitely more, such as peaceable peasants, without art,

and without politeness; but honest, simple, and contented in their

station: old officers retired from the service; merchants wearied with

application to business, and tired of growing rich; prudent mothers of

families, who bring their children to the school of modesty and good

manners: such is the company Eloisa assembles about her. To these her

husband sometimes adds some of those adventurers, reformed by age and

experience, who, having purchased wisdom at their own cost, return,

without reluctance, to cultivate their paternal soil, which they wish

they had never left. When any one relates at table the occurrences of

their lives, they consist not of the marvellous adventures of the

wealthy Sindbad, recounting, in the midst of eastern pomp and

effeminacy, how he acquired his vast wealth. Their tales are the

simple narratives of men of sense, who, from the caprice of fortune,

and the injustice of mankind, are disgusted with the vain pursuit of

imaginary happiness, and have acquired a taste for the objects of true

felicity.

Would you believe that even the conversation of peasants hath its

charms for these elevated minds, of whom the philosopher himself might

be glad to profit in wisdom? The judicious Wolmar discovers in their

rural simplicity more characteristical distinction, more men that

think for themselves, than under the uniform mask worn in great

cities, where every one appears what other people are, rather than

what he is himself. The affectionate Eloisa finds their hearts

susceptible of the smallest offers of kindness, and that they esteem

themselves happy in the interest she takes in their happiness. Neither

their hearts nor understandings are formed by art; they have not

learned to model themselves after the fashion, and are less the

creatures of men than those of nature.

Mr. Wolmar often picks up, in his rounds, some honest old peasant,

whose experience and understanding give him great pleasure. He brings

him home to Eloisa, by whom he is received in a manner which denotes,

not her politeness, or the dignity of her station, but the benevolence

and humanity of her character. The good man is kept to dinner; Eloisa

placing him next herself, obligingly helping him, and asking kindly

after his family and affairs. She smiles not at his embarrassment, nor

takes notice of the rusticity of his manners; but by the ease of her

own behaviour frees him from all restraint, maintaining throughout

that tender and affectionate respect, which is due to an infirm old

age, honoured by an irreproachable life. The venerable old man is

enraptured, and, in the fullness of heart, seems to experience again

the vivacity of youth. In drinking healths to a young and beautiful

lady, his half-frozen blood grows warm; and he begins to talk of

former times, the days of his youth, his amours, the campaigns he has

made, the battles he has been in, of the magnanimity and feats of his

fellow soldiers, of his return to his native country, of his wife, his

children, his rural employments, the inconveniencies he has remarked,

and the remedies he thinks may be applied to remove them: during which

long detail, he often lets fall some excellent, moral, or useful

lesson in agriculture, the dictates of age and experience; but be

there even nothing in what he says, so long as he takes a pleasure in

saying it, Eloisa would take pleasure in hearing.

After dinner she retires into her own apartment, to fetch some little

present for the wife or daughter of the good old man. This is

presented to him by the children, who in return receive some trifle of

him, with which she had secretly provided him for that purpose. Thus

she initiates them betimes, to that intimate and pleasing benevolence,

which knits the bond of society between persons of different

conditions. The children are accordingly accustomed to respect old

age, to esteem simplicity of manners, and to distinguish merit in all

ranks of people. The young peasants, on the other hand, seeing their

fathers thus entertained at a gentleman’s house, and admitted to the

master’s table, take no offence at being themselves excluded; they

think such exclusion not owing to their rank, but their age; they

don’t say, We are too poor, but, we are too young to be thus treated.

Thus the honour done to their aged parents, and their hope of one day

enjoying the same distinction, make them amends for being debarred

from it at present, and excite them to become worthy of it. At his

return home to his cottage, their delighted guest impatiently produces

the presents he has brought his wife and children, who are over-joyed

at the honour done them; the good old man, at the same time, eagerly

relating to them the reception he met with, the dainties he has eaten,

the wines he has tasted, the obliging discourse and conversation, the

affability of the gentlefolks, and the assiduity of the servants; in

the recital of all which, he enjoys it a second time, and the whole

family partake of the honour done to their head. They join in concert

to bless that illustrious house, which affords at once an example to

the rich and an asylum for the poor, and whose generous inhabitants

disdain not the indigent, but do honour to grey hairs. Such is the

incense that is pleasing to benevolent minds; and, if there be any

prayers to which heaven lends a gracious ear, they are certainly, not

those which are offered up by meanness and flattery, in the hearing of

the person prayed for, but such as the grateful and simple heart

dictates in secret, beneath its own roof.

It is thus, that agreeable and affectionate sentiments give charms to

a life, insipid to indifferent minds: it is thus, that business,

labour, and retirement, become amusing by the art of managing them. A

sound mind knows how to take delight in vulgar employments, as a

healthful body relishes the most simple aliments. All those indolent

people, who are diverted with so much difficulty, owe their disgust to

their vices, and lose their taste for pleasure only with that of their

duty. As to Eloisa, it is directly contrary; the employment, which a

certain languor of mind made her formerly neglect, becomes now

interesting from the motive that excites to it: One must be totally

insensible to be always without vivacity. She formerly sought solitude

and retirement, in order to indulge her reflections on the object of

her passion; at present she has acquired new activity, by having

formed new and different connections. She is not one of those indolent

mothers of a family, who are contented to study their duty when they

should discharge it, and lose their time in inquiring after the

business of others, which they should employ in dispatching their own.

Eloisa practises at present what she learnt long ago. Her time for

reading and study has given place to that of action. As she rises an

hour later than her husband, so she goes an hour later to bed. This

hour is the only time she employs in study; for the day is not too

long for the various business in which she is engaged.

This, my Lord, is what I had to say to you concerning the economy of

this house and of the retired life of those who govern it. Contented

in their station, they peaceably enjoy its conveniences; satisfied

with their fortune, they seek not to augment it for their children;

but to leave them, with the inheritance they themselves received, an

estate in good condition, affectionate servants, a taste for

employment, order, moderation, and for every thing that can render

delightful and agreeable to men of sense the enjoyment of a moderate

fortune, as prudently preserved as honestly acquired.

Letter CXXXVII. To Lord B----.

We have had visitors for some days past. They left us yesterday, and

we renewed that agreeable society subsisting between us three, which

is by so much the more delightful, as there is nothing, even in the

bottom of our hearts, that we desire to hide from each other. What a

pleasure do I take, in resuming a new being, which renders me worthy

of your confidence. At every mark of esteem which I receive from

Eloisa and her husband, I say to myself, with an air of self-

sufficiency, At length I may venture to appear before Lord B----. It

is with your assistance, it is under your eyes, that I hope to do

honour to my present situation by my past follies. If an extinguished

passion casts the mind into a state of dejection, a passion subdued

adds to the consciousness of victory, a new elevation of sentiment, a

more lively attachment to all that is sublime and beautiful. Shall I

lose the fruit of a sacrifice, which hath cost me so dear? No, my

Lord; I feel that, animated by your example, my heart is going to

profit by all those arduous sentiments it has conquered. I feel, that

it was necessary for me to be what I was, in order for me to become

what I am.

After having thrown away six days, in frivolous conversation with

persons indifferent to us, we passed yesterday morning, after the

manner of the English, in company and silence; tasting at once the

pleasure of being together and the sweetness of self-recollection. How

small a part of mankind know any thing of the pleasures of this

situation! I never saw a person in France who had the least idea of

it. The conversation of friends, say they, can never be exhausted. It

is true, the tongue may easily find words for common attachments: but

friendship, my Lord, friendship! thou animating celestial sentiment!

what language is worthy of thee? What tongue presumes to be thy

interpreter? Can any thing spoken to a friend equal what is felt in

his company? Good God I how many things are conveyed by a squeeze of

the hand, by an animating look, by an eager embrace, by a sigh that

rises from the bottom of the heart! And how cold in comparison is the

first word which is spoken after that! I shall never forget the

evenings I passed at Besancon, those delightful moments sacred to

silence and friendship. Never, Oh B----! Thou noblest of men!

sublimest of friends! No, never have I undervalued what you then did

for me; never have my lips presumed to mention it. It is certain, that

this state of contemplation affords the greatest delight to

susceptible minds. But I have always observed, that impertinent

visitors prevent one from enjoying it, and that friends ought to be by

themselves, to be at liberty to say nothing. At such a time one should

be, if one may use the expression, collected in each other; the least

avocation is destructive, the least constraint is insupportable. It is

then so sweet to pronounce the dictates of the heart without

restraint. It seems as if one dared to think freely only of what one

can as freely speak; it seems as if the presence of a stranger

restrained the sentiment, and compressed those hearts, which could so

fully dictate themselves alone.

Two hours passed away in this silent extasy, more delightful, a

thousand times, than the frigid repose of the deities of Epicurus.

After breakfast, the children came, as usual, into the apartment of

Eloisa; who, instead of retiring and shutting herself up with them in

the work-room, according to custom, kept them with her, as if to make

them some amends for the time they had lost without seeing us:----and

we none of us parted till dinner. Harriot, who begins to know how to

handle her needle, sat at work before Fanny, who was weaving lace, and

rested her cushion on the back of her little chair. The two boys were

busy at a table turning over the leaves of a book of prints, the

subject of which the eldest explained to the younger; Harriot, who

knew the whole by heart, being attentive to, and correcting him when

wrong: and sometimes, pretending to be ignorant what figures they were

at, she made it a pretence to rise, and go backwards and forwards from

the chair to the table. During these little lessons, which were given

and taken with little pains and less restraint, the younger boy was

playing with some counters which he had secreted under the book. Mrs.

Wolmar was at work on some embroidery near the window opposite the

children, and her husband and I were still sitting at the tea-table,

reading the Gazette, to which she gave but little attention. But when

we came to the article, which mentions the illness of the king of

France, and the singular attachment of his people, unequalled by any

thing but that of the Romans for Germanicus, she made some reflections

on the disposition of that affectionate and benevolent nation, whom

all the world hate, whilst they have no hatred to any one; adding,

that she envied only a sovereign the power of making himself beloved.

To this her husband replied, You have no need to envy a sovereign, who

have so long had us all for your subjects. On which she turned her

head, and cast a look on him so affecting and tender, that it struck

me prodigiously. She said nothing indeed; for what could she say equal

to such a look? Our eyes met: and I could perceive, by the manner in

which her husband pressed my hand, that the same emotion had affected

us all three, and that the delightful influence of her expansive heart

diffused itself around, and triumphed over insensibility itself.

We were thus disposed when that silent scene began, of which I just

now spoke: you may judge, that it was not the consequence of coldness

or chagrin. It was first interrupted by the little management of the

children; who, nevertheless, as soon as we left off speaking,

moderated their prattle, as if afraid of disturbing the general

silence. The little teacher was the first that lowered her voice, made

signs to the others, and ran about on tip toe, while their play became

the more diverting by this light constraint. This scene, which seemed

to present itself in order to prolong our tenderness, produced its

natural effect.

_Ammutiscon le lingue, e parlan l’alme._

How many things may be said without opening one’s lips! How warm the

sentiments that may be communicated, without the cold interposition of

speech! Eloisa insensibly permitted her attention to be engaged by the

same object. Her eyes were fixed on the three children; and her heart,

ravished with the most enchanting extasy, animated her charming

features with all the affecting sweetness of maternal tenderness.

Thus given up to this double contemplation, Wolmar and I were

indulging our reveries, when the children put an end to them. The

eldest, who was diverting himself with the prints, seeing the counters

prevented his brother from being attentive, took an opportunity, when

he had piled them up, to give them a knock and throw them down on the

floor. Marcellin fell a crying; and Eloisa, without troubling herself

to quiet him, bid Fanny pick up the counters. The child was

immediately hushed; the counters were nevertheless not brought him,

nor did he begin to cry again as I expected. This circumstance, which

however was nothing in itself, recalled to my mind a great many

others, to which I had given no attention; and when I think of them, I

don’t remember ever to have seen children, with so little speaking to,

give so little trouble. They hardly ever are out of their mother’s

sight, and yet one can hardly perceive they are in company. They are

lively and playful, as children of their age should be, but never

clamorous or teizing; they are already discreet, before they know what

discretion is. But what surprizes me most, is, that all this appears

to be brought about of itself; and that, with such an affectionate

tenderness for her children, Eloisa seems to give herself so little

concern about them. In fact, one never sees her very earnest to make

them speak or hold their tongues, to make them do this or let that

alone. She never disputes with them; she never contradicts them in

their amusements: so that one would be apt to think she contented

herself with seeing and loving them; and that when they have passed

the day with her, she had discharged the whole duty of a mother

towards them.

But, though this peaceable tranquility appears more agreeable in

contemplation than the restless solicitude of other mothers, yet I was

not a little surprized at an apparent indolence, so little agreeable

to her character. I would have had her even a little discontented,

amidst so many reasons to the contrary; so well doth a superfluous

activity become maternal affection! I would willingly have attributed

the goodness of the children to the care of the mother; and should

have been glad to have observed more faults in them, that I might have

seen her more solicitous to correct them.

Having busied myself with these reflections a long time in silence, I

at last determined to communicate them to her. I see, said I, one day,

that heaven rewards virtuous mothers, in the good disposition of their

children; but the best disposition must be cultivated. Their education

ought to begin from the time of their birth. Can there be a time more

proper to form their minds, than when they have received no impression

that need to be effaced? If you give them up to themselves in their

infancy, at what age do you expect them to be docile? While you have

nothing else to teach them, you ought to teach them obedience. Why,

returned she, do my children disobey me? That were difficult, said I,

as you lay no commands upon them. On this she looked at her husband

and laughed; then, taking me by the hand, she led me into the closet,

that we might converse without being heard by the children.

Here, explaining her maxims at leisure, she discovered to me, under

that air of negligence, the most vigilant attention of maternal

tenderness. I was a long time, said she, of your opinion with regard

to the premature instruction of children; and while I expected my

first child, was anxious concerning the obligations I should soon have

to discharge. I used often to speak to Mr. Wolmar on that subject.

What better guide could I take than so sensible an observer, in whom

the interest of a father was united to the indifference of a

philosopher? He fulfilled, and indeed surpassed my expectations. He

soon made me sensible, that the first and most important part of

education, precisely that which all the world neglects, [78] is that

of preparing a child to receive instruction.

The common error of parents, who pique themselves on their own

knowledge, is to suppose their children capable of reasoning as soon

as they are born, and to talk to them as if they were grown persons

before they can speak. Reason is the instrument they use, whereas

every other means ought first to be used in order to form that reason;

for it is certain, that, of all the knowledge which men acquire, or

are capable of acquiring, the art of reasoning is the last and most

difficult to learn. By talking to them, at so early an age, in a

language they do not understand, they learn to be satisfied with mere

words; to talk to others in the same manner; to contradict every thing

that is said to them; to think themselves as wise as their teachers:

and all that one thinks to obtain by reasonable motives, is in fact

acquired only by those of fear or vanity.

The most consummate patience would be wearied out, by endeavouring to

educate a child in this manner: and thus it is that, fatigued and

disgusted with the perpetual importunity of their children, their

parents, unable to support the noise and disorder they themselves have

given rise to, are obliged to part with them, and to deliver them over

to the care of a master; as if one could expect in a preceptor more

patience and good-nature than in a father.

Nature, continued Eloisa, would have children be children before they

are men. If we attempt to pervert that order, we produce only forward

fruit, which has neither maturity nor flavour, and will soon decay; we

raise young professors and old children. Infancy has a manner of

perceiving, thinking and feeling, peculiar to itself. Nothing is more

absurd than to think of substituting ours in its stead; and I would as

soon expect a child of mine to be five foot high, as to have a mature

judgment, at ten years old.

The understanding does not begin to form itself till after some years,

and when the corporeal organs have acquired a certain confidence. The

design of nature is therefore evidently to strengthen the body, before

the mind is exercised. Children are always in motion; rest and

reflection is inconsistent with their age; a studious and sedentary

life would prevent their growth and injure their health; neither their

body nor mind can support restraint. Shut up perpetually in a room

with their books, they lose their vigour, become delicate, feeble,

sickly, rather stupid than reasonable; and their minds suffer, during

their whole lives, for the weakness of their bodies.

But, supposing such premature instruction were as profitable as it is

really hurtful to their understandings, a very great inconvenience

would attend the application of it to all indiscriminately, without

regard to the particular genius of each. For, besides the constitution

common to its species, every child at its birth possesses a peculiar

temperament, which determines its genius and character; and which it

is improper either to pervert or restrain; the business of education

being only to model and bring it to perfection. All these characters

are, according to Mr. Wolmar, good in themselves: for nature, says he,

makes no mistakes. [79] All the vices imputed to malignity of

disposition are only the effect of the bad form it hath received.

According to him, there is not a villain upon earth, whose natural

propensity, well directed, might not have been productive of great

virtues; nor is there a wrong-head in being, that might not have been

of use to himself and society, had his natural talents taken a certain

bias; just as deformed and monstrous images are rendered beautiful and

proportionable, by placing them in a proper point of view. Every

thing, says he, tends to the common good in the universal system of

nature. Every man has his place assigned in the best order and

arrangement of things; the business is to find out that place, and not

to disturb such order. What must be the consequence then of an

education begun in the cradle, and carried on always in the same

manner, without regard to the vast diversity of temperaments and genius

in mankind? Useless or hurtful instructions would be given to the

greater part, while at the same time they are deprived of such as

would be most useful and convenient; nature would be confined on every

side, and the greatest qualities of the mind defaced, in order to

substitute in their place mean and little ones, of no utility. By

using indiscriminately the same means with different talents, the one

serves to deface the other, and all are confounded together. Thus,

after a great deal of pains thrown away in spoiling the natural

endowments of children, we presently see those transitory and

frivolous ones of education decay and vanish, while those of nature,

being totally obscured, appear no more: and thus we lose at once what

we have pulled down, and what we have raised up. In a word, in return

for so much pains indiscreetly taken, all these little prodigies

become wits without sense, and men, without merit, remarkable only for

their weakness and insignificancy.

I understand your maxims, said I to Eloisa; but I know not how to

reconcile them with your own opinion on the little advantage arising

from the display of the genius and natural talents of individuals,

either respecting their own happiness or the real interests of

society. Would it not be infinitely better to form a perfect model of

a man of sense and virtue, and then to form every child by education

after such a model, by animating one, retraining another, by

regulating its passions, improving its understanding, and thus

correcting nature?----Correcting nature! says Mr. Wolmar, interrupting

me, that is a very fine expression; but before you make use of it,

pray reply to what Eloisa has already advanced.

The most significant reply, as I thought, was to deny the principle on

which her arguments were founded; which I accordingly did. You

suppose, said I, that the diversity of temperament and genius, which

distinguish individuals, is the immediate work of nature; whereas

nothing is less evident. For, if our minds are naturally different,

they must be unequal; and if nature has made them unequal, it must be

by endowing some, in preference to others, with a more refined

perception, a greater memory, or a greater capacity of attention. Now,

as to perception and memory, it is proved by experience, that their

different degrees of extent or perfection are not the standard of

genius and abilities; and as to a capacity of attention, it depends

solely on the force of the passions by which we are animated; and it

is also proved that all mankind are by nature susceptible of passions,

strong enough to excite in them that degree of attention necessary to

a superiority of genius.

If a diversity of genius, therefore, instead of being derived from

nature, be the effect of education; that is to say, of the different

ideas and sentiments, which objects excite in us during our infancy,

of the various circumstances in which we are engaged, and of all the

impressions we receive; so far should we be from waiting to know the

character of a child before we give it education, that we should, on

the contrary, be in haste to form its character by giving it a proper

education.

To this he replied, that it was not his way to deny the existence of

any thing, because he could not explain it. Look, says he, upon those

two dogs in the court-yard. They are of the same litter; they have

been fed and trained together; have never been parted; and yet one of

them is a brisk, lively, good-natured, docible cur; while the other is

lumpish, heavy, cross-grained, and incapable of learning any thing.

Now their difference of temperament, only, can have produced in them

that of character, as the difference of our interior organization

produces in us that of our minds: in every other circumstance they

have been alike.----Alike! interrupted I; what a vast difference may

there not have been, though unobserved by you? How many minute objects

may not have acted on the one, and not on the other! How many little

circumstances may not have differently affected them, which you have

not perceived! Very pretty indeed, says he; so, I find you reason like

the astrologers; who, when two men are mentioned of different fortune

yet born under the same aspect, deny the identity of circumstances. On

the contrary, they maintain, that, on account of the rapidity of the

heavenly motions, there must have been an immense distance between the

themes, in the horoscope, of the one and the other; and that, if the

precise moment of their births had been carefully noted, the objection

had been converted into a proof.

But, pray, let us leave these subtilties, and confine ourselves to

observation. This may teach us, indeed, that there are characters

which are known almost at the birth, and children that may be studied

at the breast of their nurses: but these are of a particular class,

and receive their education in beginning to live. As for others, who

are later known, to attempt to form their genius before their

characters are distinguished, is to run a risk of spoiling what is

good in their natural dispositions, and substituting what is worse in

its place. Did not your master Plato maintain, that all the art of

man, that all philosophy could not extract from the human mind what

nature had not implanted there; as all the operations in chemistry are

incapable of extracting from any mixture more gold than is already

contained in it? This is not true of our sentiments or our ideas; but

it is true of our disposition or capacity of acquiring them. To change

the genius, one must be able to change the interior organization of

the body; to change a character, one must be capable of changing the

temperament on which it depends. Have you ever heard of a passionate

man’s becoming patient and temperate, or of a frigid methodical genius

having acquired a spirited imagination? For my own part, I think it

would be just as easy to make a fair man brown, or a blockhead a man

of sense. ’Tis in vain then to attempt to model different minds by one

common standard. One may restrain, but we can never change them: one

may hinder men from appearing what they are, but can never make them

really otherwise; and, though they disguise their sentiments in the

ordinary commerce of life, you will see them reassume their real

characters on every important occasion. Besides, our business is not

to change the character, and alter the natural disposition of the

mind, but, on the contrary, to improve and prevent its degenerating;

for by these means it is, that a man becomes what he is capable of

being, and that the work of nature is compleatd by education. Now,

before any character can be cultivated, it is necessary that it should

be studied; that we should patiently wait its opening; that we should

furnish occasions for it to display itself; and that we should forbear

doing any thing, rather than doing wrong. To one genius it is

necessary to give wings, and to another shackles; one should be

spurred forward, another reined in; one should be encouraged, another

intimidated; sometimes it should be checked, and at others assisted.

One man is formed to extend human knowledge to the highest degree; to

another it is even dangerous to learn to read. Let us wait for the

opening of reason; it is that which displays the character, and gives

it its true form: it is by that also it is cultivated, and there is no

such thing as education before the understanding is ripe for

instruction.

As to the maxims of Eloisa, which you think opposite to this doctrine,

I see nothing in them contradictory to it: on the contrary, I find

them, for my own part, perfectly compatible. Every man at his birth

brings into the world with him, a genius, talents and character

peculiar to himself. Those, who are destined to live a life of

simplicity in the country, have no need to display their talents in

order to be happy: their unexerted faculties are like the gold mines

of the Valais, which the public good will not permit to be opened. But

in a more polished society, where the head is of more use than the

hands, it is necessary that all the talents nature hath bestowed on

men should be exerted; that they should be directed to that quarter,

in which they can proceed the furthest; and above all, that their

natural propensity should be encouraged by every thing which can make

it useful. In the first case, the good of the species only is

consulted; every one acts in the same manner; example is their only

rule of action; habit their only talent; and no one exerts any other

genius than that which is common to all: Whereas in the second case we

consult the interest and capacity of individuals; if one man possess

any talent superior to another, it is cultivated and pursued as far as

it will reach; and if a man be possessed of adequate abilities, he may

become the greatest of his species. These maxims are so little

contradictory, that they have been put in practice in all ages.

Instruct not therefore the children of the peasant, nor of the

citizen, for you know not as yet what instruction is proper for them.

In every case let the body be formed, till the judgment begins to

appear: then is the time for cultivation.

All this would seem very well, said I, if I did not see one

inconvenience, very prejudicial to the advantages you promise yourself

from this method; and this is, that children, thus left to themselves,

will get many bad habits, which can be prevented only by teaching them

good ones. You may see such children readily contract all the bad

practices they perceive in others, because such examples are easily

followed, and never imitate the good ones, which would cost them more

trouble. Accustomed to have every thing, and to do as they please on

every occasion, they become mutinous, obstinate and intractable.----

But, interrupted Mr. Wolmar, it appears to me that you have remarked

the contrary in ours, and that this remark has given rise to this

conversation. I must confess, answered I, this is the very thing which

surprizes me. What can she have done to make them so tractable? What

method hath she taken to bring it about? What has she substituted

instead of the yoke of discipline? A yoke much more inflexible,

returned he immediately, that of necessity: but, in giving you an

account of her conduct, you will be better able to comprehend her

views. He then engaged Eloisa to explain her method of education;

which, after a short pause, she did in the following manner.

“Happy, my dear friend, are those who are well-born! I lay not so

great a stress as Mr. Wolmar does on my own endeavours. I doubt much,

notwithstanding his maxims, that a good man can ever be made out of a

child of a bad disposition and character. Convinced, nevertheless, of

the excellence of his method, I endeavoured to regulate my conduct, in

the government of my family, in every respect agreeable to him. My

first hope is, that I shall never have a child of a vicious

disposition; my second, that I shall be able to educate those God has

given me, under the direction of their father, in such a manner, that

they may one day have the happiness of possessing his virtues. To this

end I have endeavoured to adopt his rules by giving them a principle

less philosophical, and more agreeable to maternal affection; namely

to make my children happy. This was the first prayer of my heart after

I was a mother, and all the business of my life is to effect it. From

the first time I held my eldest son in my arms, I have reflected that

the state of infancy is almost a fourth part of the longest life; that

men seldom pass through the other three fourths; and that it is a

piece of cruel prudence to make that first part uneasy, in order to

secure the happiness of the rest, which may never come. I reflected,

that during the weakness of infancy, nature had oppressed children in

so many different ways, that it would be barbarous to add to that

oppression the empire of our caprices, by depriving them of a liberty

so very much confined, and which they were so little capable of

abusing. I resolved, therefore, to lay mine under as little constraint

as possible; to leave them to the free exertion of all their little

powers; and to suppress in them none of the emotions of nature. By

these means I have already gained two great advantages; the one, that

of preventing their opening minds from knowing any thing of

falsehood, vanity, anger, envy, and in a word of all those vices which

are the consequences of subjection, and which one is obliged to have

recourse to, when we would have children do what nature does not

teach: the other is, that they are more at liberty to grow and gather

strength, by the continual exercise which instinct directs them to.

Accustomed, like the children of peasants, to expose themselves to the

heat and cold, they grow as hardy; are equally capable of bearing the

inclemencies of the weather; and become more robust as living more at

their ease. This is the way to provide against the age of maturity,

and the accidents of humanity. I have already told you, that I dislike

that destructive pusillanimity, which, by dint of solicitude and care,

enervates a child, torments it by constant restraint, confines it by a

thousand vain precautions, and, in short, exposes it during its whole

life to those inevitable dangers it is thus protected from but for a

moment; and thus, in order to avoid catching a few colds while

children, men lay up for themselves consumptions, pleurisies, and a

world of other diseases.

What makes children, left thus to themselves, acquire the ill habits

you speak of, is that, not contented with their own liberty, they

endeavour to command others; which is owing to the absurd indulgence

of too many fond mothers, who are to be pleased only by indulging all

the fantastical desires of their children. I flatter myself, my

friend, that you have seen in mine nothing like the desire of command

and authority, even over the lowest domestic; and that you have seen

me countenance as little the false complaisance and ceremony used to

them. It is in this point, that I think I have taken a new and more

certain method to make my children at once free, easy, obliging and

tractable and that on a principle the most simple in the world, which

is, by convincing them they are but children.

To consider the state of infancy in itself, is there a being in the

universe more helpless or miserable; that lies more at the mercy of

every thing about it; that has more need of pity and protection, than

an infant? Does it not seem, that, on this account, the first noise

which nature directs it to make is that of crying and complaint? Does

it not seem, that nature gives it an affecting and tender appearance,

in order to engage every one who approaches it, to assist its

weakness, and relieve its wants? What, therefore, can be more

offensive, or contrary to order, than to see a child pert and

imperious, commanding every one about him, and assuming impudently the

tone of a master over those who, should they abandon him, would leave

him to perish? Or can any thing be more absurd than to see parents

approve such behaviour, and encourage their children to tyrannise over

their nurses, till they are big enough to tyrannise over the parents

themselves?

As to my part, I have spared no pains to prevent my son’s acquiring

the dangerous idea of command and servitude, and have never given him

room to think himself attended more out of duty than pity. This point

is, perhaps, the most difficult and important in education; nor can I

well explain it, without entering into all those precautions which I

have been obliged to take, to suppress in him that instinctive

knowledge, which is so ready to distinguish the mercenary service of

domestics from the tenderness of maternal solicitude.

One of my principal methods has been, as I have just observed, to

convince him of the impossibility of his subsisting at his age,

without our assistance. After which I had no great difficulty to shew

him, that, in receiving assistance from others, we lay ourselves under

obligations to them, and are in a state of dependence; and that the

servants have a real superiority over him, because he cannot do

without them, while he, on the contrary, can do them no service: so

that instead of being vain of their attendance, he looks upon it with

a sort of humiliation, as a mark of his weakness, and ardently wishes

for the time, when he shall be big and strong enough to have the

honour of serving himself.”

These notions, I said, would be difficult to establish in families,

where the father and mother themselves are waited on like children;

but in this, where every person has some employment allotted him, even

from the master and mistress to the lowest domestic; where the

intercourse between them apparently consists only of reciprocal

services, I do not think it impossible: but I am at a loss to conceive

how children, accustomed to have their real wants so readily

satisfied, can be prevented from expecting the same gratification of

their imaginary wants or humours; or how it is that they do not

sometimes suffer from the humour of a servant, who may treat their

real wants as imaginary ones.

“Oh, my friend, replied Mrs. Wolmar, an ignorant woman may frighten

herself at any thing, or nothing. But the real wants of children, as

well as grown persons, are very few; we ought rather to regard the

duration of our ease than the gratifications of a single moment. Do

you think, that a child, who lies under no restraint, can suffer so

much from the humour of a governess, under the eye of its mother, as

to hurt it? You imagine inconveniencies, which arise from vices

already contracted, without reflecting that my care has been to

prevent such vices from being contracted at all. Women naturally love

children; and no misunderstanding would arise between them, except

from the desire of one to subject the other to their caprices. Now

that cannot happen here, neither on the part of the child, of whom

nothing is required, nor on that of the governess, whom the child has

no notion of commanding. I have in this acted directly contrary to

other mothers, who in appearance would have their children obey the

domestics, and in reality require the servants to obey the children:

here neither of them command nor obey; but the child never meets with

more complaisance, from any person, than he shews for them. Hence,

perceiving that he has no authority over the people about him, he

becomes tractable and obliging; in seeking to gain the esteem of

others, he contracts an affection for them in turn: this is the

infallible effect of self-love; and from this reciprocal affection,

arising from the notion of equality, naturally result those virtues,

which are constantly preached to children, without any effect.

I have thought, that the most essential part in the education of

children, and which is seldom regarded in the best families, is to

make them sensible of their inability, weakness and dependence, and,

as my husband called it, the heavy yoke of that necessity which nature

has imposed on our species; and that, not only in order to shew them

how much is done to alleviate the burthen of that yoke, but especially

to instruct them betimes in what rank providence has placed them, that

they may not presume too far above themselves, or be ignorant of the

reciprocal duties of humanity.

Young people, who from their cradle have been brought up in ease and

effeminacy, who have been caressed by every one, indulged in all their

caprices, and have been used to obtain easily every thing they

desired; enter upon the world with many impertinent prejudices, of

which they are generally cured by frequent mortifications, affronts

and chagrin. Now I would willingly spare my children this second kind

of education, by giving them, at first, a just notion of things. I had

indeed once-resolved to indulge my eldest son in every thing he

wanted, from a persuasion that the first impulses of nature must be

good and salutary: but I was not long in discovering, that children,

conceiving from such treatment that they have a right to be obeyed,

depart from a state of nature almost as soon as born; contracting our

vices from our example, and theirs by our indiscretion. I saw, that if

I indulged him in all his humours, they would only increase by such

indulgence; that it was necessary to stop at some point, and that

contradiction would be but the more mortifying, as he should be less

accustomed to it: but that it might be less painful to him, I began to

use him to it by degrees; and in order to prevent his tears and

lamentations, I made every denial irrecoverable. It is true, I

contradict him as little as possible, and never without due

consideration. Whatever is given or permitted him, is done

unconditionally and at the first instance; and in this we are

indulgent enough: but he never gets any thing by importunity, neither

his tears nor intreaties being of any effect. Of this he is now so

well convinced, that he makes no use of them; he goes his way on the

first word, and frets himself no more at seeing a box of sweetmeats

taken away from him, than at seeing a bird fly away, which he would be

glad to catch; there appearing to him the same impossibility of having

the one as the other; and so far from beating the chairs and tables,

that he dares not lift his hand against those who oppose him. In every

thing that displeases him, he feels the weight of necessity, the

effect of his own weakness, but never----excuse me a moment, says she,

seeing I was going to reply; I foresee your objection and am coming to

it immediately.

The great cause of the ill humour of children is the care which is

taken either to quiet or to aggravate them. They will sometimes cry

for an hour, for no other reason in the world than because they

perceive we would not have them. So long as we take notice of their

crying, so long have they a reason for continuing to cry; but they

will soon give over of themselves, when they see no notice is taken of

them: for, old or young, nobody loves to throw away his trouble. This

is exactly the case with my eldest boy, who was once the most peeviest

little bawler, stunning the whole house with his cries; whereas now

you can hardly hear there is a child in the house. He cries, indeed,

when he is in pain; but then it is the voice of nature, which should

never be restrained; and he is again hushed as soon as ever the pain

is over. For this reason I pay great attention to his tears, as I am

certain he never sheds them for nothing: and hence I have gained the

advantage of being certain when he is in pain and when not; when he is

well and when sick; an advantage which is lost with those who cry out

of mere humour, and only in order to be appeased. I must confess,

however, that this management is not to be expected from nurses and

governesses: for, as nothing is more tiresome than to hear a child

cry, and as these good women think of nothing but the time present,

they do not foresee, that by quieting it to day, it will cry the more

tomorrow. But what is still worse, this indulgence produces an

obstinacy which is of more consequence as the child grows up. The very

cause that makes it a squawler at three years of age, will make it

stubborn and refractory at twelve, quarrelsome at twenty, imperious

and insolent at thirty, and insupportable all its life.

I come now to your objection, added she, smiling. In every indulgence

granted to children, they can easily see our desire to please them,

and therefore they should be taught to suppose we have reason for

refusing or complying with their requests. This is another advantage

gained by making use of authority, rather than persuasion, on every

necessary occasion. For, as it is impossible they can always be blind

to our motives, it is natural for them to imagine that we have some

reason for contradicting them, of which they are ignorant. On the

contrary, when we have once submitted to their judgment, they will

pretend to judge of every thing; and thus become cunning, deceitful,

fruitful in shifts and chicanery, endeavouring to silence those who

are weak enough to argue with them: for, when one is obliged to give

them an account of things above their comprehension, they attribute

the most prudent conduct to caprice, because they are incapable of

understanding it. In a word, the only way to render children docile

and capable of reasoning, is not to reason with them at all; but to

convince them, that it is above their childish capacities; for they

will always suppose the argument in their favour, unless you can give

them good cause to think otherwise. They know very well that we are

unwilling to displease them, when they are certain of our affection;

and children are seldom mistaken in this particular: therefore, if I

deny any thing to my children, I never reason with them; I never tell

them why I do so or so; but I endeavour, as much as possible, that

they should find it out; and that even after the affair is over. By

these means they are accustomed to think that I never deny them any

thing without a sufficient reason, though they cannot always see it.

On the same principle it is, that I never suffer my children to join

in the conversation of grown persons, or foolishly imagine themselves

upon an equality with them, because they are permitted to prattle. I

would have them give a short and modest answer, when they are spoke

to, but never to speak of their own head, or ask impertinent questions

of persons so much older than themselves, to whom they ought to shew

more respect.”

These, interrupted I, are very rigid rules, for so indulgent a mother

as Eloisa. Pythagoras himself was not more severe with his disciples.

You are not only afraid to treat them like men, but seem to be fearful

lest they should too soon cease to be children. By what means can they

acquire knowledge more certain and agreeably, than by asking questions

of those who know better than themselves? What would the Parisian

ladies think of your maxims, whose children are never thought to

prattle too much or too long: they judge of their future

understanding, by the nonsense and impertinence they utter when young?

That may not be amiss, Mr. Wolmar will tell me, in a country where the

merit of the people lies in chattering, and a man has no business to

think, if he can but talk. But I cannot understand how Eloisa, who is

so desirous of making the lives of her children happy, can reconcile

that happiness with so much restraint; nor amidst so much confinement,

what becomes of the liberty with which she pretends to indulge them.

“What, says she, with impatience, do we restrain their liberty, by

preventing them from trespassing on ours? And cannot they be happy,

truly, without a whole company’s sitting silent to admire their

puerilities? To prevent the growth of their vanity is a surer means to

effect their happiness: for the vanity of mankind is the source of

their greatest misfortunes, and there is no person so great or so

admired, whose vanity has not given him much more pain than pleasure.

[80]

What can a child think of himself, when he sees a circle of sensible

people listening to, admiring, and waiting impatiently for, his wit,

and breaking out in raptures at every impertinent expression? Such

false applause is enough to turn the heart of a grown person; judge

then what effect it must have upon that of a child. It is with the

prattle of children, as with the predictions in the Almanac. It would

be strange, if amidst such a number of idle words, chance did not now

and then jumble some of them into sense. Imagine the effect which such

flattering exclamations must have on a simple mother, already too much

flattered by her own heart. Think not, however that I am proof against

this error, because I expose it. No, I see the fault, and yet am

guilty of it. But, if I sometimes admire the repartees of my son, I do

it at least in secret. He will not learn to become a vain prater, by

hearing me applaud him; nor will flatterers have the pleasure, in

making me repeat them, of laughing at any weakness.

I remember one day, having company, I went out to give some necessary

orders, and on my return found four or five great blockheads busy at

play with my boy; they came immediately to tell me, with great

rapture, the many pretty things he had been saying to them, and with

which they seemed quite charmed. Gentlemen, said I, coldly, I doubt

not but you know how to make puppets say very fine things; but I hope

my children will one day be men, when they will be able to act and

talk of themselves; I shall then be always glad to hear what they have

said and done well. Seeing this manner of paying their court did not

take, they since play with my children, but not as with Punchinello;

and to say the truth, they are evidently better, since they have been

less admired.

As to their asking questions, I do not prohibit it indiscriminately. I

am the first to tell them to ask, softly, of their father or me, what

they desire to know. But I do not permit them to break in upon a

serious conversation, to trouble every body with the first piece of

impertinence that comes into their heads. The art of asking questions

is not quite so easy as may be imagined. It is rather that of a

master, than of a scholar. The wise know and enquire, says the Indian

proverb, but the ignorant know not even what to enquire after. For

want of such previous instruction, children, when at liberty to ask

questions as they please, never ask any but such as are frivolous and

answer no purpose, or such difficult ones whose solution is beyond

their comprehension. Thus, generally speaking, they learn more by the

questions which are asked of them, than from those which they ask of

others.

But were this method, of permitting them to ask questions, as useful

as it is pretended to be, is not the first and most important science

to them, that of being modest and discreet? and is there any other

that should be preferred to this? Of what use then is an unlimited

freedom of speech to children, before the age at which it is proper

for them to speak? Or the right of impertinently obliging persons to

answer their childish questions? These little chattering querists ask

questions, not so much for the sake of instruction, as to engage one’s

notice. This indulgence, therefore, is not so much the way to instruct

them, as to render them conceited and vain; an inconvenience much

greater, in my opinion, than the advantage they gain by it: for

ignorance will by degrees diminish, but vanity will always increase.

The worst that can happen from too long a reserve, will be, that my

son, when he comes to years of discretion, will be less fluent in

speech, and may want that volubility of tongue, and multiplicity of

words, which he might otherwise have acquired: but when we consider

how much the custom of passing away life in idle prattle, impoverishes

the understanding, this happy sterility of words appears rather an

advantage than otherwise. Shall the organ of truth, the most worthy

organ of man, the only one whose use distinguishes him from the

brutes, shall this be prostituted to no better purposes than those,

which are answered as well by the inarticulate sounds of other

animals? He degrades himself even below them, when he speaks and says

nothing; a man should preserve his dignity, as such, even in his

lightest amusements. If it be thought polite to stun the company with

idle prate, I think it a much greater instance of true politeness to

let others speak before us; to pay a greater deference to what is

said, than to what we say ourselves; and to let them see we respect

them too much, to think they can be entertained by our nonsense. The

good opinion of the world, that which makes us courted and caressed by

others, is not obtained so much by displaying our own talents, as by

giving others an opportunity of displaying theirs, and by placing our

own modesty as a foil to their vanity. You need not be afraid that a

man of sense, who is silent only from reserve and discretion, should

ever be taken for a fool. It is impossible in any country whatever,

that a man should be characterised by what he has not said, or that he

should be despised for being silent.

On the contrary, it may be generally observed, that people of few

words impose silence on others who pay an extraordinary attention to

what they say, which gives them every advantage of conversation. It is

so difficult for the most sensible man to retain his presence of mind,

during the hurry of a long discourse; so seldom that something does

not escape him, that he afterwards repents of, that it is no wonder if

he chuses to suppress what is pertinent, to avoid the risk of talking

nonsense.

But there is a great difference between six years of age and twenty;

my son will not be always a child, and in proportion as his

understanding ripens, his father designs it shall be exercised. As to

my part, my task does not extend so far. I may nurse children, but I

have not the presumption to think of making them men. I hope, says

she, looking at her husband, this will be the employment of more able

heads. I am a woman and a mother, and know my place and my duty; and

hence, I say again, it is not my duty to educate my sons, but to

prepare them for being educated.

Nor do I any thing more in this than pursue the system of Mr. Wolmar,

in every particular; which, the farther I proceed, the more reason I

find to pronounce excellent and just. Observe my children,

particularly the eldest; have you ever seen children more happy, more

chearful, or less troublesome? You see them jump, and laugh, and run

about all day, without incommoding any one. What pleasure, what

independence, is their age capable of, which they do not enjoy, or

which they abuse? They are under as little restraint in my presence,

as when I am absent. On the contrary, they seem always at more liberty

under the eye of their mother, than elsewhere; and, though I am the

author of all the severity they undergo, they find me always more

indulgent than any body else: for I cannot support the thought of

their not loving me better than any other person in the world. The

only rules imposed on them in our company, are those of liberty

itself, viz they must lay the company under no greater restraint, than

they themselves are under; they must not cry louder than we talk; and

as they are not obliged to concern themselves with us, they are not to

expect our notice. Now, if ever they trespass against such equitable

rules as these, all their punishment is, to be immediately sent away;

and I make this a punishment, by contriving to render every other

place disagreeable to them. Setting this restriction aside, they are,

in a manner, quite unrestrained; we never oblige them to learn any

thing; never tire them with fruitless corrections; never reprimand

them for trifles; the only lessons which are given them being those of

practice. Every person in the house, having my directions, is so

discreet and careful in this business, that they leave me nothing to

wish for; and, if any defect should arise, my own assiduity would

easily repair it.

Yesterday, for example, the eldest boy, having taken a drum from his

brother, set him a crying. Fanny said nothing to him, at the time; but

about an hour after, when she saw him in the height of his amusement,

she in her turn took it from him, which set him a crying also. What,

said she, do you cry for? You took it just now, by force, from your

brother, and now I take it from you; what have you to complain of? Am

not I stronger than you? She then began to beat the drum, as if she

took pleasure in it. So far all went well, till sometime after, she

was going to give the drum to the younger, but I prevented her, as

this was not acting naturally, and might create envy between the

brothers. In losing the drum, the youngest submitted to the hard law

of necessity; the elder, in having it taken from him, was sensible of

his injustice: both knew their own weakness, and were in a moment

reconciled.”

A plan, so new, and so contrary to received opinions, at first

surprized me. By dint of explanation, however, they at length

represented it in an admirable light, and I was made sensible that the

path of nature is the best. The only inconvenience, which I find in

this method, and which appeared to me very great, was to neglect the

only faculty which children possess in perfection, and which is only

debilitated by their growing into years. Methinks, according to their

own system of education, that the weaker the understanding, the more

one ought to exercise and strengthen the memory, which is then so

proper to be exercised. It is that, said I, which ought to supply the

place of reason; it is enriched by judgment. [81] The mind becomes

heavy and dull by inaction. The seed takes no root in a soil badly

prepared, and it is a strange manner of preparing children to become

reasonable, by beginning to make them stupid. How! stupid! cried Mrs.

Wolmar immediately. Do you confound two qualities so different, and

almost contrary, as memory and judgment? As if an ill-digested and

unconnected lumber of things, in a weak head, did not do more harm

than good to the understanding. I confess, that, of all the faculties

of the human mind, the memory is the first which opens itself, and is

the most convenient to be cultivated in children: but which, in your

opinion, should be preferred, that which is most easy for them to

learn, or that which is most important for them to know? Consider the

use which is generally made of this aptitude, the eternal constraint

to which they are subject in order to display their memory, and then

compare its utility to what they are made to suffer. Why should a

child be compelled to study languages he will never talk, and that

even before he has learnt his own tongue? Why should he be forced

incessantly to make and repeat verses he does not understand, and

whose harmony all lies at the end of his fingers; or be perplexed to

death with circles and triangles, of which he has no idea; or why

burthened with an infinity of names of towns and rivers, which he

constantly mistakes, and learns anew every day? Is this to cultivate

the memory to the improvement of the understanding, or is all such

frivolous acquisition worth one of those many tears it costs him? Were

all this, however, merely useless, I should not so much complain of

it; but is it not pernicious to accustom a child to be satisfied with

mere words? Must not such a heap of crude and indigested terms and

notions be injurious to the formation of those primary ideas with

which the human understanding ought first to be furnished? And would

it not be better to have no memory at all, than to have it stuffed

with such a heap of literary lumber, to the exclusion of necessary

knowledge!

If nature has given to the brain of children that softness of texture,

which renders it proper to receive every impression, it is not fit for

us to imprint the names of sovereigns, dates, terms of art, and other

insignificant words of no meaning to them while young, nor of any use

to them as they grow old: but it is our duty to trace out betimes all

those ideas which are relative to the state and condition of humanity,

those which relate to their duty and happiness, that they may serve to

conduct them through life in a manner agreeable to their being and

faculties. The memory of a child may be exercised, without poring over

books. Every thing he sees, every thing he hears, catches his

attention, and is stored up in his memory: he keeps a journal of the

actions and conversation of men, and from every scene that presents

itself, deduces something to enrich his memory. It is in the choice of

objects, in the care to shew him such only as he ought to know, and to

hide from him those of which he ought to be ignorant, that the true

art of cultivating the memory consists.

You must not think, however, continued Eloisa, that we entirely

neglect that care on which you think so much depends. A mother, if she

is the least vigilant, holds in her hands the reins over the passions

of her children. There are ways and means to excite in them a desire

of instruction; and so far as they are compatible with the freedom of

the child, and tend not to sow in him the seeds of vice, I readily

employ them, without being chagrined if they are not attended with

success: for there is always time enough for knowledge, but not a

moment should be lost in forming the disposition. Mr. Wolmar lays,

indeed, so great a stress on the first dawnings of reason, that he

maintains, though his son should be totally ignorant at twelve years

old, he might know not a whit the less at fifteen; without considering

that nothing is less necessary than for a man to be a scholar, and

nothing more so than for him to be just and prudent. You know that our

eldest reads already tolerably well. I will tell you how he became

fond of it; I had formed a design to repeat to him, from time to time,

some fable out of la Fontaine, and had already begun, when he asked me

one day, seriously, if ravens could talk. I saw immediately the

difficulty of making him sensible of the difference between fable and

falsehood, and laying aside la Fontaine, got off as well as I could,

being from that moment convinced that fables were only proper for

grown persons, and that simple truth only should be repeated to

children. In the room of la Fontaine, therefore, I substituted a

collection of little interesting and instructive histories, taken

mostly from the bible; and, finding he grew attentive to these tales,

I composed others as entertaining as possible, and applicable to

present circumstances. These I wrote out fair, in a fine book

ornamented with prints, which I kept locked up, except at the times of

reading. I read also but seldom, and never long at a time, repeating

often the same story, and commenting a little, before I passed on to

another. When I observed him particularly intent, I pretended to

recollect some orders necessary to be given, and left the story

unfinished just in the most interesting part, laying the book down

negligently, and leaving it behind me. I was no sooner gone than he

would take it up, and go to his Fanny or somebody else, begging them

to read the remainder of the tale; but as nobody was at his command,

and every one had his instructions, he was frequently refused. One

would give him a flat denial, another had something else to do, a

third muttered it out very low and badly, and a fourth would leave it

in the middle, just as I had done before. When we saw him heartily

wearied out with so much dependence, somebody intimated to him, to

learn to read himself, and then he need not ask any body, but might

turn it over at pleasure. He was greatly delighted with the scheme;

but, where should he find any one obliging enough to instruct him?

This was a new difficulty, which we took care, however, not to make

too great. In spite of this precaution, he was tired out three or four

times; but of this I took no other notice, than to endeavour to make

my little histories the more amusing, which brought him again to the

charge with so much ardour, that though it is not six months since he

began to learn, he will be very soon able to read the whole

collection, without any assistance.

It is in this manner I endeavour to excite his zeal and inclination,

to attain such knowledge as requires application and patience; but

though he learns to read, he gets no such knowledge from books, for

there is no such in the books he reads, nor is the application to it

proper for children. I am desirous also of furnishing their heads with

ideas, and not with words; for which reason I never set them to get

any thing by heart.

Never! said I, interrupting her, that is saying a great deal. Surely

you have taught him his prayers and his catechism! There you are

mistaken, she replied. As to the article of prayers, I say mine, every

morning and evening, aloud in the nursery, which is sufficient to

teach them, without obliging them to learn. As to their catechism,

they know not what it is. What! Eloisa! your children never learn

their catechism! No, my friend, my children do not learn their

catechism. Indeed! said I, quite surprized, so pious a mother!----I

really do not comprehend you. Pray what is the reason they do not

learn it? The reason is, said she, that I would have them some time or

other believe it: I would have them be Christians. I understand you, I

replied; you would not have their faith consist in mere words; you

would have them believe, as well as know, the articles of their

religion; and you judge very prudently that it is impossible for a man

to believe what he does not understand. You are very difficult, said

Mr. Wolmar, smiling; pray, were you a Christian by chance? I

endeavour to be one, answered I, resolutely. I believe all that I

understand of the Christian religion, and respect the rest, without

rejecting it. Eloisa made me a sign of approbation, and we resumed the

former subject of conversation; when, after explaining herself on

several other subjects, and convincing me of her active and

indefatigable maternal zeal, she concluded by observing, that her

method exactly answered the two objects she proposed, namely, the

permitting the natural disposition and character of her children to

discover themselves, and empowering herself to study and examine it.

My children, continued she, lie under no manner of restraint, and yet

cannot abuse their liberty. Their disposition can neither be depraved

nor perverted; their bodies are left to grow, and their judgments to

ripen at ease and leisure: subjection debases not their minds nor does

flattery excite their self-love; they think themselves neither

powerful men nor enslaved animals, but children happy and free. To

guard them from vices, not in their nature, they have in my opinion, a

better preservative than lectures which they would not understand, or

of which they would soon be tired. This consists in the good behaviour

of those about them; in the good conversation they hear, which is so

natural to them all, that they stand in no need of instruction; it

consists in the peace and unity of which they are witnesses; in the

harmony which is constantly observed, and in the conduct and

conversation of every one around them. Nursed hitherto in natural

simplicity, whence should they derive those vices, of which they have

never seen the example? Whence those passions they have no opportunity

to feel, those prejudices which nothing they observe can impress? You

see they betray no bad inclination; they have adopted no erroneous

notions. Their ignorance is not opinionated, their desires are not

obstinate; their propensity to evil is prevented, nature is justified,

and every thing serves to convince me, that the faults we accuse her

of, are not those of nature but our own.

It is thus that, given up to the indulgence of their own inclinations,

without disguise or alteration, our children do not take an external

and artificial form, but preserve exactly that of their original

character. It is thus that character daily unfolds itself to

observation, and gives us an opportunity to study the workings of

nature, even to her most secret principles. Sure of never being

reprimanded or punished, they are ignorant of lying or concealing any

thing from us; and in whatever they say, whether before us or among

themselves, they discover, without restraint, whatever lies at the

bottom of their hearts. Being left at full liberty to prattle all day

long to each other, they are under no restraint before me. I never

check them, enjoin them to silence, or indeed pretend to take notice

of what they say, while they talk sometimes very blameably, though I

seem to know nothing of the matter. At the same time, however, I

listen to them with attention, and keep an exact account of all they

say and do; for these are the natural productions of the soil which we

are to cultivate. A naughty word in their mouths is a plant or seed

foreign to the soil, sown by the vagrant wind: should I cut it off by

a reprimand, it would not fail ere long to shoot forth again. Instead

of that, therefore, I look carefully to find its root, and pluck it

up. I am only, said she, smiling, the servant of the gardener; I only

weed the garden, by taking away the vicious plants: it is for him to

cultivate the good ones.

It must be confessed also that with all the pains I may take, I ought

to be well seconded to succeed, and that such success depends on a

concurrence of circumstances, which is perhaps to be met with no where

but here. The knowledge and discretion of a sensible father are

required, to distinguish and point out in the midst of established

prejudices, the true art of governing children from the time of their

birth; his patience is required to carry it into execution, without

ever contradicting his precepts by his practice; it is necessary that

one’s children should be happy in their birth, and that nature should

have made them amiable; it is necessary to have none but sensible and

well disposed servants about one, who will not fail to enter into the

design of their matter. One brutal or servile domestic would be enough

to spoil all. In short, when one thinks how many adventitious

circumstances may injure the best designs, and spoil the best-

concerted projects, one ought to be thankful to Providence for every

thing that succeeds, and to confess that wisdom depends greatly on

good fortune. Say rather, I replied, that good fortune depends on

prudence. Don’t you see that the concurrence of circumstances, on

which you felicitate yourself, is your own doing, and that every one

who approaches you is, in a manner, compelled to resemble you? O ye

mothers of families! when you complain that your views, your

endeavours, are not seconded, how little do you know your own power!

Be but what you ought, and you will surmount all obstacles; you will

oblige every one about you to discharge their duty, if you but

discharge yours. Are not your rights those of nature? In spite of the

maxims or practice of vice, these will be always respected by the

human heart. Do you but aspire to be women and mothers, and the most

gentle empire on earth will be also the most respectable.

In the close of our conversation Eloisa remarked that her task was

become much easier since the arrival of Harriot. It is certain, said

she, I should have had less trouble if I would have excited a spirit

of emulation between the brothers. But this step appeared to me too

dangerous; I chose, therefore, rather to take more pains, and to run

less risk. Harriot has made up for this; for, being of a different

sex, their elder, fondly beloved by both, and very sensible for her

age, I make a kind of governess of her, and with the more success, as

her lessons are less suspected to be such.

As to herself, her education falls under my care; but the principles

on which I proceed are so different, as to deserve particular

explanation. Thus much, at least, I can say of her already, that it

will be difficult to improve on the talents nature has given her, and

that her merit is equal to her mother’s, if her mother could possible

have an equal.

We now, my Lord, expect you every day here, so that this should be my

last letter. But I understand the reason of your stay with the army,

and tremble for the consequence. Eloisa is no less uneasy, and desires

you will oftener let her hear from you; conjuring you, at the same

time, to think how much you endanger the peace of your friends, by

exposing your person. For my part, I have nothing to say to you on

this subject. Discharge your duty; the advice of pusillanimity is as

foreign from my heart as from yours. I know too well, my dear B----,

the only catastrophe worthy of you, is, to lose your life in the

service and for the honour of your country; but ought you not to give

some account of your days to him, who has preserved his only for your

sake?