Volume IV

Letter CXL. From Lord B---- to Mrs. Orbe.

I find, by your two last letters, that a former one is missing,

apparently the first you wrote me from the army, and in which you

accounted for Mrs. Wolmar’s secret uneasiness. Not having received

that letter, I imagine it was in the mail of one of our couriers, who

was taken; you will, therefore, my friend, be pleased to re-

communicate its contents. I am at a loss to conjecture what they were,

and am uneasy about them. For again, I say, if happiness and peace

dwell not in Eloisa’s mind, I know not where they will find an asylum

on earth. You may make her easy, as to the dangers she imagines we are

here exposed to; we have to do with an enemy too expert to suffer us

to pursue him. With a handful of men, he baffles our attempts, and

deprives us of all opportunity to attack him. As we are very sanguine,

however; we may probably raise difficulties which the best generals

would not be able to surmount, and at length oblige the French to

fight us. I foresee our first success will cost us dear, and that the

victory we gained at Dettingen will make us lose one in Flanders. We

make head against a very able commander. Nor is this all; he possesses

the love and confidence of his troops, and the French soldiers, when

they have a good opinion of their leader, are _invincible_. [82] On the

contrary, they are good for so little when they are commanded by

courtiers they despise, that frequently their enemies need only to

watch the intrigues of the cabinet, and seize a proper opportunity,

to vanquish with certainty the bravest people on the continent: this

they very well know. The duke of Marlborough, taking notice of the

good look and martial air of a French soldier, taken prisoner at the

battle of Blenheim, told him, if the French army had been composed of

fifty thousand such men as he, it would not have been so easily

beaten; Zounds sir, replied the grenadier, there are men enough in it

like me, but it wants such a man as you; now such a man at present

commands the French troops, and is on our side wanting; but we have

courage, and trouble ourselves little about that. At all events,

however, I intend to see their operations for the remainder of the

campaign, and am resolved not to leave the army till it goes into

winter-quarters. We shall all be gainers by such a delay, the season

being too far advanced for us to think of crossing the mountains this

year. I shall spend the winter with you, and not go to Italy till the

beginning of the spring. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar I have thus changed

my design, that I may have more time to contemplate that affecting

picture you so pathetically describe, and that I may have also the

opportunity to see Mrs. Orbe settled with them. Continue, my dear sir,

to write with your usual punctuality, and you will do me a greater

pleasure than ever: my equipage having been taken by the enemy, I have

no books; but amuse myself in reading over your letters.

Letter CXLI. To Lord B----.

What pleasure does your lordship give me in acquainting me with your

design of passing the winter with us at Clarens! but how dearly you

make me pay for it by prolonging your stay at the army! what

displeases me most, however, is to perceive that your resolution of

making a campaign was fixed before we parted, though you mentioned

nothing of it to me. I see, my lord, your reason for keeping it a

secret, and cannot be pleased with you for it. Did you despise me so

much as to think me unfit to accompany you? or have you ever known me

mean enough to be attached to any thing I should prefer to the honour

of dying with my friend? But if it was improper for me to follow you

to the army, you should at least have left me in London; that would

have displeased me less than your sending me hither.

By your last letter I am convinced that one of mine is indeed missing;

the loss of which must have rendered the two succeeding ones in many

respects obscure; but the necessary explanations to make them

intelligible, shall be soon transmitted you. What is at present more

particularly needful, is to remove your uneasiness concerning that of

Mrs. Wolmar.

I shall not take upon me to give you a regular continuation of the

discourse we had together after the departure of her husband. Many

things have since intervened that make me forget great part of it, and

it was resumed at so many different times during his absence, that I

shall content myself, to avoid repetition, with giving you a summary

of the whole.

In the first place she told me, that Mr. Wolmar, who neglected nothing

in his power to make her happy, was nevertheless the sole author of

all her disquietude; and that the more sincere their mutual attachment

grew, the greater was her affliction. Would you think it, my lord?

This gentleman so prudent, so reasonable, so little addicted to any

kind of vice, so little subject to the tyranny of human passions,

knows nothing of that faith which gives virtue all its merit; and in

the innocence of an irreproachable life, feels only at the bottom of

his heart, the dreadful tranquillity of the unbeliever. The reflection

which arises from this contrast, in principle and morals, but

aggravates Eloisa’s grief; she would think him even less culpable in

disregarding the author of his Being, had he more reason to dread his

anger, or presumption to brave his power. That the guilty should be

led to appease their consciences at the expence of truth; that the

pride of thinking differently from the vulgar may induce others to

embrace error, she can readily conceive; but, continued she sighing,

how a man so virtuous, and so little vain of his understanding, should

be an infidel, surpasses my conception!

But before I proceed farther, it will be necessary to inform you of

the peculiar character of this married couple. You are to conceive

them as living solely for each other, and constantly taken up with

their family; it being necessary to know the strictness of the union

subsisting between them, to comprehend how their difference of

sentiments, in this one article, is capable of disturbing it. Mr.

Wolmar, educated in the customs of the Greek church, was not one of

those who could support the absurdity of such ridiculous worship. His

understanding, superior to the feeble yoke imposed on it, soon shook

it off with contempt; rejecting, at the same time, every thing offered

to his belief on such doubtful authority; thus forced in a manner into

impiety, he degenerates into Atheism.

Having resided ever since in Roman-catholic countries, he has never

been induced to a better opinion of Christianity, by what he found

professed there. Their religion, he saw, tended only to the interest

of their priests; that it consisted entirely of ridiculous grimaces,

and a jargon of words without meaning. He perceived that men of sense

and probity were unanimously of his opinion, and that they did not

scruple to say so; nay, that the clergy themselves, under the rose,

ridiculed in private what they inculcated and taught in public; hence

he has often assured me that, after having taken much time and pains

in the search, he never met with above three priests in his life that

believed a God. [83]

By endeavouring to set himself to rights in there matters, he

afterwards bewildered himself in metaphysical enquiries; and, seeing

only doubts and contradictions offer themselves on every side,

advanced so far that, when he returned to the doctrines of

Christianity, he came too late, and incapable of either belief or

conviction, the best arguments appeared to him inconclusive. He

finished his career, therefore, by equally opposing all religious

tenets whatever; and was converted from Atheism only to become a

Sceptic.

Such is the husband which heaven has destined to Eloisa; to her whose

true faith and sincere piety cannot have escaped your observations;

but to know how much her gentle soul is naturally inclined to

devotion, requires that long intimacy with her, in which her cousin

and I have lived. It might be said, no terrestrial object being equal

to her tenderness, her excess of sensibility is reduced to ascend to

its source: not like a saint Theresa, whose amorous heart only changes

its object: hers is a heart truly inexhaustible, which neither love

nor friendship can drain; but whose affections are still raised to the

only Being, worthy her ardent love. [84] Her love to God does not

detach her from his creatures; it gives her neither severity nor

spleen. But all her affections, proceeding from the same cause, and

tempering each other become more sweet and attracting; she would, I

believe, be less devout, if her love toward her husband, her children,

her cousin, and me were less than it is. What is very singular, also,

is that she knows but little of her own heart; and even complains that

she finds in herself, a soul barren of tenderness and incapable of

love to the sublimest object.----“Do what you will, she often says,

the heart is affected only by the interposition of the senses, or the

assistance of the imagination; and how shall we see or imagine the

immensity of the Supreme Being? [85] When I would raise myself up to

the deity, I know no longer where I am; perceiving no relation between

us, I know not how to reach him, I neither see nor feel anything, I

drop into a kind of annihilation; and, if I may venture to judge of

others by myself, I should apprehend the ecstasies of the mystics are

no less owing to the fulness of the heart than the emptiness of the

head.”

“What must I do then, added she, to get rid of these delusions of a

wandering mind? I substitute a less refined worship, but within the

reach of my comprehension, in the room of those sublime

contemplations, which surpass my mental faculties. With regret I

debase the majesty of the divinity, and interpose perceptible objects

between the deity and my feeble senses; not being able to contemplate

his essence, I contemplate at least his works, and admire his

goodness; but whatever method I take, instead of that pure love and

affection he demands, it is only an interested gratitude I have to

offer him.”

Thus, every thing is productive of sentiment in a susceptible mind;

the whole universe presenting to Eloisa, nothing but what is a subject

for love and gratitude. On every side she sees and adores the

benevolent hand of providence; her children are pledges committed by

it to her care; she receives its gifts, in the produce of the earth;

she sees her table covered by its bounty; she sleeps under its

protection; she awakes in peace under its care; she is instructed by

its chastisements, is made happy by its favours: all the benefits she

reaps, all the blessings she enjoys, are so many different subjects

for adoration and praise. If the attributes of the divinity are beyond

her feeble sight, she feels in every part of the creation, the common

father of mankind. To honour thus the supreme benevolence, is it not

to serve as much as possible an infinite Being?

Think, my lord, what pain it must give a woman of such a disposition,

to spend a life of retirement with a man who, while he forms a part of

her existence, cannot partake, of that hope which makes her existence

dear; not to be able to join him in praise and gratitude to the deity,

nor to converge with him on the blessed futurity we have to hope from

his goodness! to see him insensible, in doing good, to every thing

which should make virtue agreeable to us; and, with the strangest

absurdity, thinking like an infidel and acting as a Christian. Imagine

her walking abroad with her husband; the one admiring, in the

beautiful verdure of spring, or golden fruits of autumn, the power and

beneficence of the great Creator of all things; the other seeing in

them nothing but a fortuitous combination of atoms, united only by

chance. Imagine to yourself the situation of a married couple, having

a sincere regard for each other, who, for fear of giving offence, dare

not indulge themselves in such sentiments or reflections as the object

around them inspire; but who are bound in duty, even from their

reciprocal affections, to lay themselves under continual restraint.

Eloisa and I hardly ever walk out together, but some striking or

picturesque object puts her in mind of this disagreeable circumstance.

Alas! said she with great emotion to me, one day, this beautiful

prospect before us, so lively, so animating in our eyes, is a dead and

lifeless scene in those of the unfortunate Wolmar. In all that harmony

of created beings which nature displays, in vain do they unite to

speak their Maker’s praise: Mr. Wolmar perceives only a profound and

eternal silence.

You who know Eloisa, who know what delight her communicative mind

takes in imparting its sentiments; think what she must suffer by such

constraint, even though it were attended with no other inconvenience,

than that unsocial reserve which is peculiarly disagreeable between

two persons so intimately connected. But Eloisa has much greater cause

of uneasiness. In vain does she oppose those involuntary terrors,

those dreadful ideas that rush upon her mind. They return with

redoubled force, and disturb every moment of her life. How horrid must

it be for such an affectionate wife to think the supreme Being is the

avenger of his offended attributes! to think the happiness of him on

whom her own depends must end with his life; and to behold a reprobate

of God in the father of her children! all her sweetness of disposition

can hardly preserve her from falling into despair at this horrible

idea; her religion only, which imbitters the infidelity of her

husband, yielding her strength to support it. If heaven, says she

sometimes, refuses me the conversion of this honest man, I have but

one blessing to ask; which is that I may die before him.

Such, my lord, is the too just cause of Eloisa’s chagrin; such is the

secret affliction which preys on her mind, and is aggravated by the

care she takes to conceal it. Atheism, which stalks abroad undisguised

among the Papists, is obliged to hide its head in every country, where

reason, giving a sanction to religion, deprives infidels of all

excuse. Its principles are naturally destructive; and, though they

find partisans among the rich and great, who promote them, they are

held in the utmost horror by an oppress’d and miserable people; who,

seeing their tyrants thus freed from the only curb to restrain their

insolence, comfort themselves with the hope of another life, their

only consolation in this. Mrs. Wolmar, foreseeing the ill-consequences

of her husband’s scepticism, and being desirous to preserve her

children from the bad effects of so dangerous an example, prevailed on

him to keep his principles a secret; to which she found no great

trouble to persuade a man who, though honest and sincere, is yet

discreet, unaffected, without vanity, and far from wishing to deprive

others of a blessing which he himself cannot enjoy. In consequence of

this, he keeps his tenets to himself; he goes to church with us;

conforms himself to custom; and without making a verbal confession of

what he does not believe, avoids giving scandal, and pays all that

respect to the established religion of the country which the state has

a right to demand of its citizens.

They have been married now almost eight years, during which time Mrs.

Orbe only has been in the secret; nor probably would she of herself

ever have discovered it. Such care indeed is taken to save

appearances, and with so little affectation, that, after having spent

six weeks together in the greatest intimacy, I had not the least

suspicion; and should perhaps never have known Mr. Wolmar’s sentiments

on religious matters, if Eloisa herself had not apprized me of them.

Several motives determined her to that confidence: In the first place,

a too great reserve would have been incompatible with the friendship

that subsists between us. Again, it would be only aggravating her

uneasiness at her own cost, to deny herself the consolation of sharing

it with a friend. She was, besides, unwilling that my presence would

be long an obstacle to the conversation they frequently held together

on a subject she had so much at heart. In short, knowing you intended

soon to join us here, she was desirous, with the consent of her

husband, that you should be previously made acquainted with his

sentiments; as she hopes to find from your prudence and abilities, a

supplement to our hitherto fruitless efforts, worthy of your

character.

The opportunity she laid hold of to place this confidence in me, made

me suspect also another reason, which however she herself never

insinuated. Her husband has just left us; we lived formerly together;

our hearts had been enamoured of each other; they still remembered

their former transports; had they now forgot themselves but for a

moment, we had been plunged into guilt and infamy. I saw plainly she

was fearful of our private conversations, and sought to prevent the

consequences she feared; and I was myself too well convinced, by the

remembrance of what happened at Meillerie, that they who consider

least in themselves are the safest to be trusted.

Under these groundless apprehensions, which her natural timidity

inspired, she conceived she could take no better precaution than

always to have a witness to our conversation, whose presence could not

fail of being respected; and to call in, as a third person, the awful

and upright judge, who searches the heart, and is privy to the most

secret actions of men. Thus, committing herself to the immediate

protection of the divinity, I found the deity always between us. What

criminal desire could ever assail such a safeguard? my heart grew

refined by her zeal, and I partook of her virtue.

Thus, the gravest topics of discourse took up almost all our private

conferences in the absence of her husband; and since his return, we

have resumed them frequently in his presence. He attends to our

conversation, as if he was not at all concerned; and, without

despising our endeavours, sometimes advises us in our method of

argument. It is this which makes me despair of success; for had he

less sincerity, one might attack that vicious faculty of the mind that

nourishes his infidelity; but, if we are to convince him by dint of

reasoning, where shall we find information that has escaped his

knowledge, or arguments that have eluded his sagacity? For my part,

when I have undertaken to dispute with him, I have found that all mine

had been before exhausted to no purpose by Eloisa; and that my

reasoning fell far short of that pathetic eloquence which dictated by

the heart, flowed in persuasive accents from her tongue. I fear, my

lord, we shall never make a convert of this man. He is too frigid, not

immoral; his passions are not to be moved; sensibility, that innate

proof of the truth of religion, is wanting; and the want of this alone

is enough to invalidate all others.

Notwithstanding Eloisa’s care to disguise her uneasiness from him, he

knows and partakes of it; his discernment will not permit him to be

imposed on. His own chagrin therefore, on account of hers, is but too

apparent. Hence he has been tempted several times, she told me, to

affect a change of sentiments; and, for the sake of Eloisa’s peace, to

adopt tenets he could not in fact believe: but his soul was above the

meanness of hypocrisy. This dissimulation, instead of imposing on

Eloisa, would only have afforded a new cause of sorrow. That

sincerity, that frankness, that union of hearts, which now comfort

them under their afflictions, would then have no more subsisted

between them. Was it by making himself less worthy her esteem that he

could hope to calm her fears? No, instead therefore of deceiving her,

he tells her sincerely his thoughts; but this he does in a manner so

simple and unaffected, so little disdainful of received opinions, so

unlike that ironical, contemptuous behaviour of free-thinkers, that

such melancholy confessions are extremely afflicting. As she cannot,

however, inspire her husband with that faith and hope, with which she

herself is animated, she studies with the more assiduity to indulge

him, in all those transient pleasures to which his happiness is

confined. Alas! says she weeping, if the poor unfortunate has his

heaven in this life, let us make it, at, least, as agreeable to him as

possible! [86]

That veil of sorrow, which this difference in opinion throws over

their union, gives a farther proof of the irresistible ascendant of

Eloisa, in the consolation with which that affliction is tempered, and

which perhaps no other person in the world would be able to apply. All

their altercations, all their disputes, on this important point, so

far from giving rise to ill nature, contempt, or anger, generally end

in some affecting scene which the more endears them to each other.

Our conversation falling yesterday upon the same subject, as it

frequently does when we three are by ourselves, we were led into a

dispute concerning the origin of evil; in which I endeavoured to

prove, that no absolute or general evil existed in the system of

nature; but that even particular and relative evils were much less in

reality, than in appearance; and that, on the whole, they were more

than recompensed by our particular and relative good. As an example of

this, I appealed to Mr. Wolmar himself, and, penetrated with a sense

of the happiness of his situation, I described it so justly, and in

such agreeable colours, that he seemed himself affected with the

description. “Such,” says he, interrupting me, “are the delusive

arguments of Eloisa: she always substitutes sentiment in the place of

reason, and argues so affectingly, that I cannot help embracing her at

every reply: Was it not her philosophical preceptor,” added he,

smiling, “that taught her this manner of reasoning?” Two months

before, this piece of pleasantry would have cruelly disconcerted me;

but my first embarrassment was now over, and I joined in the laugh:

nor did Eloisa, tho’ she blush’d a little, appear any more embarrassed

than myself. We continued the dispute. Wolmar, not contending about

the quantity of evil, contented himself with observing that whether

little or much, evil still existed; and thence inferred the want

either of power, wisdom, or goodness, in the first cause. I, on my

part, stove to deduce the origin of physical evil from the properties

of matter, and of moral evil from the free agency of man. I advanced,

that nothing was impossible to the deity, except the creation of

substances as perfect and exempt from evil as himself. We were in the

heat of our dispute when I perceived Eloisa had left us. “Can you

guess whither she is gone?” said her husband, seeing me look around

for her. “I suppose,” said I, “to give some orders in her family.”

“No,” replied he, “she would not have left us at this time for that.

Business of that kind is, I know not how, transacted without my ever

seeing her interfere.” “Then she is gone to the nursery?” “No; her

children are not more at her heart, than my conversion.” “Well then,”

said I, “I know not what she is gone about; but I am well assured she

is employed in some useful concern.” “Still less,” said he coldly;

“come, come along; you shall see if I guess right.”

He then stept softly along the room, and I followed him in the same

manner: when, coming to the door of Eloisa’s closet, and finding it

shut, he threw it suddenly open. Oh! my lord! what a sight did this

present us! Eloisa on her knees, her hands lifted up to heaven, and

her face bathed in tears! She rose up precipitately, wiping her eyes,

hiding her face, and trying to escape us: never did I see so affecting

a confusion. Her husband did not give her time to get away; but ran to

her, in a kind of transport. “Ah, my dear!” said he, embracing her,

“even the fervency of your prayers betrays the weakness of your cause:

what prevents their efficacy? if your desires were heard, they would

presently be granted.” “I doubt not,” said she, with a devout

confidence, “but they will be granted; how soon or late, I leave to

heaven. Could I obtain it, at the expense of my life, I should lay it

down with pleasure, and think the last the best employed of all my

days.”

Come, my lord, leave those scenes of destruction you are now engaged

in, and act a nobler part. Can a philosopher prefer the honour of

destroying mankind, to the virtue of endeavouring to save them? [87]

Letter CXLII. To Lord B----.

What! my lord, after being absent a whole campaign, must you take a

journey to Paris? Have you then entirely forgotten Clarens, and its

inhabitants? Are we less dear to you than my lord H----? or, are you

more necessary to that friend, than to those who expect you here? you

oblige us to oppose our wishes to yours, and make me in particular

lament, that I have not interest enough at the court of France, to

prevent your obtaining the passports you wait for. But, no matter; go,

visit your worthy countryman. In spite of you both, we will be

revenged of you for the preference given him; for, whatever pleasure

you may enjoy in his company, I know that, when you come to be with

us, you will regret the time you staid away.

On receiving your letter, I at first suspected you were charged with

some secret commission. If peace were in view, where could be found a

more worthy mediator? But when do kings put their confidence in men of

worth? Dare they listen to the truth? do they know how to respect true

merit? No, my dear Lord B----, you are not made for a minister of

state; and I think too well of you to imagine, if you had not been

born a peer, you would ever have risen to that dignity. Come, come, my

friend, you will be better at Clarens, than at court. What an

agreeable winter shall we pass together, if the hope of seeing you

here does not deceive me! our happiness is every day preparing, by the

arrival of one or other of those privileged minds, who are so dear to

each other, so worthy of each other’s esteem, and who seem only to

wait for you to be able to live without all the rest of the world. On

hearing what a lucky accident brought hither the baron’s adversary,

you foresaw the consequences of that rencounter; it has really fallen

out as you foretold. That old litigant, tho’ almost as obstinate and

inflexible as his opponent, could not resist the ascendant we got over

him. After seeing and conversing with Eloisa, he began to be ashamed

of contending with her father; and on leaving her, set out for Bern,

in so favourable a disposition, that we hear an accommodation is far

advanced, and from the baron’s last letter expect his return home in a

few days. This you will already have been told by Mr. Wolmar: but

probably you do not yet know that Mrs. Orbe, having settled her

affairs, arrived here on Thursday last, and resides entirely at the

house of her friend. As I knew beforehand the day of her arrival, I

set out to meet her, unknown to Mrs. Wolmar, whom she had a mind to

surprize: we met on this side Lutry and returned together.

I think I never saw her so sprightly and agreeable; but unequal,

absent, giving little attention to any thing, and seldom replying;

talking by fits and starts; in a word, given up entirely to that

restlessness which is natural to us, when just on the point of

obtaining what we have long ardently desired. One would have thought,

every minute, that she was afraid of being obliged to return. Her

journey, tho’ so long deferred, was undertaken so precipitately, that

it almost turned the heads of both mistress and domestics. A whimsical

disorder appeared throughout the whole of her little baggage. If her

woman imagined, as she did every now and then, that she had left

something behind, Clara as constantly assured her she had put it into

the seat of the coach where, upon farther enquiry, it was not to be

found.

As she was unwilling Eloisa should hear the rattling of her coach, she

got out in the avenue before we came to the gate; and, skudding across

the courtyard like a sylph, ran upstairs with so much precipitation

that she was obliged to stop and take breath on the first landing

place, before she could get up the next flight. Mr. Wolmar came out to

meet her, but she was in too much hurry to speak to him. On opening

the door of Eloisa’s apartment, I saw her sitting near the window,

with the little Harriot on her knee. Clara had prepared for her a fine

compliment, in her way, a compound of affection and pleasantry; but,

on setting her foot over the threshold, compliment and pleasantry were

all forgotten; she flew forward to embrace her friend with a transport

impossible to be described, crying out ah! my dear, dear cousin!

Harriot, seeing her mother, fled to meet her, and crying out _Mamma,

Mamma_, ran with so much force against her, that the poor child fell

backwards on the floor. The effect of the sudden appearance of Clara,

the fall of Harriot, the joy, the apprehensions, that seized upon

Eloisa at that instant, made her give a violent shriek, and faint

away. Clara was going to lift up the child when she saw her friend

turn pale, which made her hesitate whom to assist; till, seeing me

take up Harriot, she flew to the relief of Eloisa; but, in

endeavouring to recover her, sunk down likewise in a swoon by the side

of her friend.

The child, seeing them both without motion, made such loud

lamentations as soon brought the little Frenchwoman into the room; the

one clung about her mother, the other ran to her mistress. For my

part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room with

out knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making

involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible

Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a

scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal

from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears?

Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on

a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he,

seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted

for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never

dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take

in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly

delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am

yet the most unhappy of all here.”

You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the

consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited

throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that

has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw

her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all

that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh

caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no

occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We

were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an

entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing

would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the

best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to

amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous;

throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder,

which was its greatest embellishment.

The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her

employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same

eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new

plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at

dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side,

their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa

guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of

ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to

former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar

reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion,

which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot

describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.

After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or

women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and

were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now

increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed

ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so

much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d,

she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she

would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a

breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a

philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy;

that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest

night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that

will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led

down another dance.

She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she

could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she

was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy

every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with

a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself

the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon

Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.

After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which

had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it

became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to

be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.

After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place.

Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her

sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has,

besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of

Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a

good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a

widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both

increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the

house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than

before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting

herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that

is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will

profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say

her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her,

it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some

strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in

doubt about it. In fact, they both call her _Harriot_, or _my child_,

indifferently. She calls the one her _Mamma_, and the other her

_little Mamma_: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal

obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it

is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers;

so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning,

however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a

fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in

features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft

regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child

puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her

behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener

on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It

must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our _little mamma_;

and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that

it may be sometimes perhaps intended.

In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your

presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of

that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or

a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.

Letter CXLIII. To Lord B----.

For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively

to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too

sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again

called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more

intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot

without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable

amusements I find here.

I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in

such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it

is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could

hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to

enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even

when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are

ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them;

they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not

at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country

people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.

The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the

thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their

singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music,

and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread

in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the

same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in

a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in

town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for,

however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are

accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the

impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that

variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted

only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen

to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something

agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our

compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private

utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first

employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with

the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas

of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the

prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the

fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at

a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows

not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts,

and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable

that we never hear it without pleasure.

I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some

countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager

avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman

master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor

jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy

peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning

with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather

by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one

almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such

poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what

pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane

proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their

lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their

pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of

providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature

about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their

cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty,

and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual

entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the

agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we

live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in

imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set

one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake

of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of

love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the

men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret

fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of

Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been!

how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so

much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here

is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne,

surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all

beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.

For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a

favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin;

[89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view

the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the

gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows

on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the

casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the

songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual

trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the

press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the

people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good

humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the

whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning

and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a

scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that

an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is

the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with

delight.

Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made

all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his

winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious

liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge

of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and

distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share.

Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the

day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of

which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to

inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot

bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to

this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one

having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are

assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself

sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those

that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at

least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the

old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and

comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a

thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly

engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher

and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so

very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we

are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with

his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no,

were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I

know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more

honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the

extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is

certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and,

provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing,

and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive

him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended

philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts

me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into

ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two;

we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we

go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your

master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age,

also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with

as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I

have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word

before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her

father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.

It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable

occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines

intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’

carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite

flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.

We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to

make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when

the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the

stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they

are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red

grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press,

fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white

wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_,

reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its

fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a

muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines

have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is

simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a

diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot

conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is

done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption

to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all

treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put

on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but

never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell

the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding

even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual

raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper

each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle

folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused

a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when

cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and

at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little

coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We

laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in

order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without

affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon

them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go

out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for

us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the

rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see

them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and

wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make

them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the

most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword

and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in

seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children

received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to

mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the

troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the

simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and

beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the

hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect

you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely,

more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than

monarchs surrounded with guards.

In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople

being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even

on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together

till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain

altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating

no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays

with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves

the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the

city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more

agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they

affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the

slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes

the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of

consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92]

Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire

in it. On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr.

Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the

light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully

avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more

costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence

being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a

little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two

long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply

supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table,

master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up

to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast

ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion,

subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The

presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the

workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and

chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give

offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender

being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.

Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the

season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the

country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is

not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who

take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to

manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better

how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away

from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and

festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge

myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no

longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious

Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the

bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one

look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for

my weakness.

After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing

a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings

alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of

their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is,

not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole

is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and

often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot

forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when

the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have

heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look

upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am

seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart,

and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it

off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which

I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.

The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their

occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful

sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something

affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most

interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without

its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony

there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only

require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not

harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to

it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in

the relation of harmonious sounds.

Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do

better, and so spoil all.

There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening,

as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of

yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most

expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun

to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I

shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours,

to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it;

made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me

severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done

here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to

cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse,

make a jest of it.

In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs.

Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On

which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable

proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of

the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire.

Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to

whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has

done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she

does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is

accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon

burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about

which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company

are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the

conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour,

chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the

next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.

Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.

Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the

acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to

render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man

undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have

executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than

that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its

vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to

virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you

have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up

entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have

received at your hands.

Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always

distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the

weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That

cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is

past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you

tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your

answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It

was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I

should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode,

that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.

As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not

repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I

have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my

last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit

the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it

is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without

shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless

forgive the shame which attends my repentance.

Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B---- has

told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you?

shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be

preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The

hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my

assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.

How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to

Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of

both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal

for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never

entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more

openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask

for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and

esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my

dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.

You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of

your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those

sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you

approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested

themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind

of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate

to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able

to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My

system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing

more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only

in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in

subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.

I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and

at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to

possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all

this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my

soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey

approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it

is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that

once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly

discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear

Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them

useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see

Lord B---- happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all

assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for

any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which

depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but

on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps

a secret register of your good actions.

Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.

Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of

that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you

have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you

the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to

purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can

reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no

longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given

me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall

not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have

deposited it in your hands.

The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with

myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked

upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it

therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to

friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor,

a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put

the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure,

the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having

spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the

other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy

homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly

contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given

occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any

one who was dear to me. My Lord B----, being apprehensive of a

sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a

formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house,

we could not elude your friendly vigilance. Your door half open and

your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in

and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these

circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing

my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I

found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former

occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B----, was a witness of that

difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene

of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself

in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than

you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had

appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This

idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and

perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling

down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.

I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and

particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me

under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My

Lord B----, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no

very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he

censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He

pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me

with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy

attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw

plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention

the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself

exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was

but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion

on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay

there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took

horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my

lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I

took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to

Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our

punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he

informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and

what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the

effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this

nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to

retire.

As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected

it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to

Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very

difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of

what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation,

though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all

my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a

short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my

former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that

succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested

themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite

delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance

wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy

were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved

again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the

transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating

draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy,

the delirium of love. On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost

and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a

being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then

thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my

heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that

my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for

having been so little sensible of my happiness!----did I weep then?

----didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!----thou shall weep no more

----thou hast no right to weep.----Why is she not dead? said I, in a

transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then

indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with

pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say,

She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans,

she approves and accepts of my homage.----I should then, at least,

have cherished the hope of being united to her again.----But she

lives and is happy in the possession of another.----She lives, and

her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven,

having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure

of regretting her loss----she lives, but not for me: she lives for

my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she

were no more.

I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me

in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most

poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all

the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a

thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in

particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and

though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times

appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.

Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed,

and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her

hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once

described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was

represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said

Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to

you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave

me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child,

answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be

obeyed----you will be a mother in your turn, and----she could say no

more----On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she

was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and

perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a

shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many

attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself

with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face,

appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in

a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is

spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I

struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my

bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops

of sweat, and drowned in tears.

My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the

same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to

sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented

itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable

veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it

covered.

On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could

not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed,

without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber,

like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and

still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive

notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast

some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform

them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and

at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty

found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B----

and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost

breathless, crying out, She is gone----she is gone----I shall

never see her more.----His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew

to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently

perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was

the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such

confusion.

He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt

the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but,

seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had

made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame,

says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor

esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen

which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit

for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had

nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no

more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and

embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself;

tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the

conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly

ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered

something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.

We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my

last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing

that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on

my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at

length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great

surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the

gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you

see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go

thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go

and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your

friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do

not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in

your brain.

What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling

as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to

myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext

have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my

ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous

Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my

fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant

behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’

every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I

heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody

come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as

possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together;

but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I

perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and

tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a

sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but

so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.

This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest

from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I

laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a

hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good

health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever

my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more

ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara,

when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back,

proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end,

and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have

it said of a friend of Lord B----’s, that he could not get the better

of a dream.

This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last

confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are

not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that

not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but

that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure

than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I

concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me

if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the

affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil

is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my

reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my

duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no

difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate

the inseparables.

We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after

tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and

expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem

the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so

long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara!

no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!

Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.

We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily

guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but

what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than

any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had

happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting

that the Alps were between us.

With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing

of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies,

in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous,

as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last

moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter

had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.

As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no

longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself;

always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have

long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding

yourself in the morning.

I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your

courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came,

does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems

to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the

whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more

discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to

what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is

of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be

ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample

recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought

you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting

us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then,

however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not

seeing your confusion.

Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I

have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them.

That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once

terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading

your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I

blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for

your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming

tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should

prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied,

and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had

done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again

without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no

longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once

in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the

receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed. I

cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing

her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread

her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst

involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that

veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every

time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when

you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace

of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that,

after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very

unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your

friends; it were better for you to do this and be a _visionary

mortal_, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.

It appears by a letter of Lord B----’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks

seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined,

and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and

happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above

all that of your friend,

Clara Orbe.

P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium,

it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be

vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and

severe enough to verify the proverb, that _listeners seldom, hear any

good of themselves_.

Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.

As I write to Lord B----, and explain myself so fully with respect to

you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you

to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of

civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To

make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to

make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal

authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after

having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make

you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient

praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours

to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.

So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream,

that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being

so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such

systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are

visionary.

What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the

species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from

what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death

for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for

that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to

determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old

amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening,

I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what

you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what

is doing at Vevey.

The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly

employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however,

will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth!

to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all

await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it;

it is from you only I expect it.

Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.

Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of

men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task

have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain

your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never

did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the

apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I

have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction,

your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give

up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this

critical moment, though but for one week.

I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing

but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen

her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I

applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble

lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of

bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I

launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem

and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his

stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to

destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even

the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by

alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of

passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him

now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His

heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of

which she has taken the advantage. It would be difficult indeed for

any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In

fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without

being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and

depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping

the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as

the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast

the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their

lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing,

one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in

justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who

could see and converse with her without danger.

Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you

with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant

passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that

intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the

world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to

trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord

B---- contract such a marriage? can you think it----under the eve of

his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under

infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and

tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.

But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his

impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse

of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I

affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general

maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to

touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and

imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he

flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real

friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this

occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty,

we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do

here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will

only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any

argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me,

that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my

party is not to irritate him by dispute.

Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would

make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this

weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of

mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B----, stands in awe of his

friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has

let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry,

that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest.

He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my

duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I

gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust

the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend.

You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily

converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed

against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that

maxim in the present case. In fact, the motives of compassion, of a

contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing

that determines my Lord B---- on this occasion, are of that inferior

nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from

generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have

attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may

seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some

repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am

doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to

which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy?

but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any

thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy

the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this

resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the

account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be

taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every

other in vain. Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent

so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I

shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and

whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend

on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast,

Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B----.

If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you

think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But

be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my

letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After

having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and

be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I

ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to

consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known

nothing of it. [93]