You see it is with difficulty I come to the chief object of your last

letter; that which I should have first and most maturely considered,

and which only should now engage my thoughts, if I could pretend to

the happiness proposed to me. O Eloisa, benevolent and incomparable

friend! in offering me thus your other half, the most valuable present

in the universe next to yourself, you do more for me if possible than

ever you have done before. A blind ungovernable passion might have

prevailed on you to give me yourself; but to give me your friend is

the sincerest proof of your esteem. From this moment I begin to think

myself, indeed, a man of real merit, since I am thus distinguished.

But how cruel, at the same time, is this proof of it. In accepting

your offer I should bely my heart, and to deserve must refuse it. You

know me, and may judge.

It is not enough that your charming cousin should engage my

affections; I know she should be loved as you are. But will it, can it

be? or does it depend on me to do her that justice, in this

particular, which is her due? alas! if you intended ever to unite me

to her, why did you not leave me a heart to give her; a heart which

she might have inspired with new sentiments, and which in turn might

have offered her the first fruits of love! I ought to have a heart at

ease and at liberty, such as was that of the prudent and worthy Orbe,

to love her only as he did. I ought to be as deserving as he was, in

order to succeed him: otherwise the comparison between her former and

present situation will only serve to render the latter less

supportable, the cold and divided love of a second husband, so far

from consoling her for the loss of the first, will but make her regret

him the more. By her union with me, she will only convert a tender

grateful friend into a common husband. What will she gain by such an

exchange? She will be doubly a loser by it; her susceptible mind will

severely feel its loss; and how shall I support a continual sadness,

of which I am the cause, and which I cannot remove? in such a

situation alas! her grief would be first fatal to me. No, Eloisa, I

can never be happy at the expense of her ease. I love her too well to

marry her.

Be happy! no, can I be happy without making her so? can either of the

parties be separately happy or miserable in marriage? are not their

pleasures and pains, common to both? and does not the chagrin which

one gives to the other always rebound on the person who caused it? I

should be made miserable by her afflictions, without being made happy

by her goodness. Beauty, fortune, merit, love, all might conspire to

ensure my felicity! but my heart, my froward heart, would counterwork

them all; would poison the source of my delights, and make me

miserable in the very midst of happiness.

In my present situation, I take pleasure in her company: but if I

attempt to augment that pleasure by a closer union, I shall deprive

myself of the most agreeable moments of my life. Her turn for humour

and gaiety may give an amorous cast to her friendship, but this is

only whilst there are witnesses to her favours. I may also feel too

lively an emotion for her; but it is only when by your presence you

have banished every tender sentiment for Eloisa. When she and I are by

ourselves, it is you only who render our conversation agreeable. The

more our attachment increases, the more we think on the source from

which it sprung; the ties of friendship are drawn closer, and we love

each other but to talk of you. Hence arise a thousand pleasing

reflections, pleasing to Clara and more so to me, all which a closer

union would infallibly destroy. Will not such reflections, in that

case too delightful, be a kind of infidelity to her? and with what

face can I make a beloved and respectable wife the confident of those

infidelities of which my heart, in spite of me, would be guilty? this

heart could no longer transfuse itself into hers. No longer daring to

talk of you, I should soon forbear to speak at all. Honour and duty

imposing on me a new reserve, would thus estrange from me the wife of

my bosom, and I should have no longer a guide or a counsellor to

direct my steps or correct my errors. Is this the homage she has a

right to expect from me? is this that tribute of gratitude and

tenderness which I ought to pay to her? is it thus that I am to make

her and myself happy?

Is it possible that Eloisa, can have forgotten our mutual vows? for my

part, I never can forget them. I have lost all, except my sincerity,

and that I will preserve inviolate to my last hour. As I could not

live for you, I will die unmarried. Nay, had I not already made such a

promise to myself, I would do it now. For though it be a duty to

marry, it is yet a more indispensable one not to make any person

unhappy; and all the sentiments such a contract would now excite in

me, would be mixed with the constant regret of that which I once

vainly hoped for: a regret which would at once be my torment, and that

of her who should be unfortunate enough to be my wife. I should

require of her those days of bliss which I expected with you. How

should I support the comparison! what woman in the world could bear

that? ah, no, I could never endure the thoughts of being at once

deprived of you, and destined to be the husband of another.

Seek not then, my dear friend, to shake those resolutions on which

depends the repose of my life: seek not to recall me out of that state

of annihilation into which I am fallen; lest, in bringing me back to a

sense of my existence, my wounds should bleed afresh, and I should

again sink under a load of misfortunes. Since my return I perceived

how deeply I became interested in whatever concerned your charming

friend; but I was not alarmed at it, as I knew the situation of my

heart would never permit me to be too solicitous. Indeed I was not

displeased with an emotion, which, while it added softness to the

attachment I always had for Clara, would assist in diverting my

thoughts from a more dangerous object, and enable me to support your

presence with greater confidence. This emotion has something in it of

the pleasure of love without any of its pains. The calm delight I take

in seeing her is not disturbed by the restless desire of possessing

her: contented to pass my whole life in the manner I passed the last

winter, I find between you both that peaceful and agreeable situation,

[98] which tempers the austerity of virtue and renders its lessons

amiable. If a vain transport affects me for a moment, every thing

conspires to suppress it; and I have too effectually vanquished those

infinitely more impetuous and dangerous emotions to fear any that can

assail me now. I honour your friend no less than I love her, and that

is saying every thing. But should I consult only my own interest, the

rights of the tenderest friendship are too valuable, to risk their

loss, by endeavouring to extend them; and I need not even think of the

respect which is her due to prevent my ever saying a single word in

private conversation which would require interpretation, or which she

ought not to understand. She may perhaps have sometimes remarked a

little too much solicitude in my behaviour towards her but she has

surely never observed in my heart any desire to express it. Such as I

was for six months past, such would I be with regard to her, as long

as I live. I know none who approach you, so perfect as she is; but

were she even more perfect than yourself, I feel that after having

been your lover I should never have become hers.

But before I conclude this letter, I must give you my opinion of

yours. Yes, Eloisa, with all your prudence and virtue, I can discover

in it the scruples of a timorous mind, which thinks it a duty to

frighten itself; and conceives its security lies in being afraid. This

extreme timidity is as dangerous as excessive confidence. In

constantly representing to us imaginary monsters, it wastes our

strength in combating chimeras; and by terrifying us without cause,

makes us less on our guard against, as well as less capable of

discerning, real dangers. Read over again, now and then, the letter

which Lord B----, wrote to you last year, on the subject of your

husband; you will find in it some good advice that may be of service

to you in many respects. I do not discommend your devotion, it is

affecting, amiable, and like yourself; it is such as even your husband

should be pleased with. But take care lest timidity and precaution

lead you to quietism, and lest by representing to yourself danger on

every side, you are induced at length to confide in nothing. Don’t you

know, my dear friend, that a state of virtue is a state of warfare.

Let us employ our thoughts less on the dangers which threaten us, than

on ourselves; that we may be always prepared to withstand temptation.

If to run in the way of temptation is to deserve to fall, to shun it

with too much solicitude is often to fly from the opportunities of

discharging the noblest duties; it is not good to be always thinking

of temptations, even with a view to avoid them. I shall never seek

temptation: but, in whatever situation Providence may place me for the

future, the eight months I passed at Clarens will be my security; nor

shall I be afraid that any one will rob me of the prize you taught me

to deserve. I shall never be weaker than I have been, nor shall ever

have greater temptations to resist. I have left the bitterness of

remorse and I have tasted the sweets of victory, after all which I

need not hesitate a moment in making my choice; every circumstance of

my past life, even my errors, being a security for my future

behaviour.

I shall not pretend to enter with you into any new or profound

disquisitions, concerning the order of the universe, and the

government of those beings, of which it is composed: it will be

sufficient for me to say, that in matters so far above human

comprehension there is no other way of rightly judging of things

invisible, but by induction from those which are visible; and that all

analogy makes for those general laws which you seem to reject. The

most rational ideas we can form of the supreme Being confirm this

opinion: for, although omnipotence lies under no necessity of adopting

methods to abridge his labour, it is nevertheless worthy of supreme

wisdom to prefer the most simple modes of action, that there may be

nothing useless either in cause or effect. In the formation of man he

endowed him with all the necessary faculties to accomplish what should

be required of him, and when we ask of him the power to do good, we

ask nothing of him, but what he has already given us. He has given us

understanding to know what is good, a heart to love [99] and liberty

to make choice of it. Therefore, in these sublime gifts consists

divine grace; and as we have all received it, we are all accountable

for its effects.

I have heard, in my time, a good deal of arguments against the free

agency of man, and despise all its sophistry. A casuist may take what

pains he will to prove that I am no free agent, my innate sense of

freedom constantly destroys his arguments: for whatever choice I make

after deliberation, I feel plainly that it depended only on myself to

have made the contrary. Indeed all the scholastic subtilties I have

heard on this head are futile and frivolous; because they prove too

much, are equally used to oppose truth and falsehood; and, whether man

be a free agent or not, serve equally to prove one or the other. With

these kind of reasoners, the Deity himself is not a free agent, and

the word liberty is in fact a term of no meaning. They triumph, not in

having solved the difficulty, but in having substituted a chimera in

its room. They begin by supposing that every intelligent being is

merely passive, and from that supposition deduce consequences to prove

its inactivity: a very convenient method of argumentation truly! if

they accuse their adversaries of reasoning in this manner, they do us

injustice. We do not _suppose_ ourselves free and active beings; we

feel that we are so. It belongs to them to shew not only that this

sentiment may deceive us, but that it really does so. [100] The bishop

of Cloyne has demonstrated that, without any diversity in appearances,

body or matter may have no absolute existence; but is this enough to

induce us to affirm that it absolutely has no existence? In all this,

the mere phenomenon would cost more trouble than the reality; and I

will always hold by that which appears the most simple.

I don’t believe therefore, that after having provided in every shape

for the wants of man in his formation, God interests himself in an

extraordinary manner for one person more than another. Those who abuse

the common aids of Providence are unworthy such assistance, and those

who made good use of them have no occasion for any other. Such a

partiality appears to me injurious to divine justice. You will say,

this severe and discouraging doctrine may be deduced from the holy

scripture. Be it so. Is it not my first duty to honour my Creator? In

whatever veneration then I hold the sacred text, I hold its author in

a still greater; and I could sooner be induced to believe the bible

corrupted or unintelligible, than that God can be malevolent or

unjust. St. Paul would not have the vessel say to the potter who

formed it, why hast thou framed me thus? this is very well, if the

potter should apply it only to such services as he constructed it to

perform but if he should censure this vessel as being inadequate to

the purpose for which it was constructed; has it not a right to ask,

why hast thou made me thus?

But does it follow from hence that prayer is useless? God forbid that

I should deprive myself of that resource. Every act of the

understanding which raises us to God carries us above ourselves; in

imploring his assistance we learn to experience it. It is not his

immediate act that operates on us, it is we that improve ourselves by

raising our thoughts in prayer to him. [101] All that we ask aright,

he bestows; and, as you observe, we acquire strength in confessing our

weakness. But if we abuse this ordinance and turn mystics, instead of

raising ourselves to God, we are lost in our own wild imaginations; in

seeking grace, we renounce reason; in order to obtain of heaven one

blessing, we trample under foot another; and in obstinately

persisting, that heaven should enlighten our hearts, we extinguish the

light of our understandings. But who are we that should insist on the

deity’s performing miracles, when we please, in our favour?

You know very well, there is no good thing that may not be carried

into a blameable excess; even devotion itself, when it degenerates

into the madness of enthusiasm. Yours is too pure ever to arrive at

this excess; but you have reason to be on your guard against a less

degree of it. I have heard you often censure the ecstasies of the

pietists; but do you know from whence they arise? from allotting a

longer time to prayer than is consistent with the weakness of human

nature. Hence the spirits are exhausted, the imagination takes fire,

they see visions, they become inspired and prophetical; nor is it then

in the power of the understanding to stop the progress of fanaticism.

Now, you shut yourself frequently in your closet, and are constant in

prayer. You do not indeed as yet converse with pietists, [102] but you

read their books. Not that I ever censured your taste for the writings

of the worthy Fenelon: but what have you to do with those of his

disciple? You read Muralt. I indeed read him too: but I make choice of

his letters, you of his divine instinct. But remark his end, lament

the extravagant errors of that sensible man, and think of yourself. At

present a pious, a true Christian, beware Eloisa of becoming a mere

devotee.

I receive your counsel, my dear friend, with the docility of a child,

and give you mine with the zeal of a father. Since virtue, instead of

dissolving our attachments, has rendered them indissoluble, the same

lessons may be of use to both, as the same interests connect us. Never

shall our hearts speak to each other, never shall our eyes meet

without presenting to both a respectable object which shall mutually

elevate our sentiments, the perfection of the one reciprocally

assisting the other.

But though our deliberations may be common to both, the conclusion is

not; it is yours alone to decide. Cease not, then, you who have ever

been mistress of my destiny, cease not to be so still. Weigh my

arguments, and pronounce sentence: whatever you order me to do, I will

submit to your direction, and will at least deserve the continuance of

it. Should you think it improper for me to see you personally again,

you will yet be always present to my mind, and preside over my

actions. Should you deprive me of the honour of educating your

offspring, you will not deprive me of the virtues which you have

inspired. These are the offspring of your mind, which mine adopts as

its own, and will never bear to have them torn from it.

Speak to me, Eloisa, freely. As I have now been explicit to what I

think and feel on this occasion, tell me what I must do. You know how

far my destiny is connected with that of my illustrious friend. I have

not consulted him on this occasion; I have neither shewn him this

letter nor yours. If he should know that you disapprove his project,

or rather, that of your husband, he will reject it himself; and I am

far from designing to deduce from thence any objection to your

scruples; he only ought to be ignorant of them till you have finally

determined. In the mean time, I shall find some means or other to

delay our departure, in which, though they may surprize him a little,

I know he will acquiesce. For my own part, I had rather never see you

more, than to see you only just to bid you again adieu: and to live

with you as a stranger, would be a state of mortification which I have

not deserved.

Letter CLVIII. From Mrs. Wolmar.

How does your headstrong imagination affright and bewilder itself! and

at what, pray? truly at the sincerest proofs of my friendship and

esteem which you ever experienced: at the peaceful reflections which

my solicitude for your real happiness inspired; at the most obliging,

the most advantageous, and the most honourable proposal that was ever

made you; at my desire, perhaps an indiscreet one, of uniting you by

indissoluble ties to our family; at the desire of making a relation, a

kinsman of an ingrate, who affects to believe I want to discard him as

a friend. To remove your present uneasiness, you need only take what I

write in the most natural sense the words will bear. But you have long

delighted in tormenting yourself with false constructions. Your

letters are like your life, sublime and mean, masterly and puerile.

Ah, my dear philosopher! will you never cease to be a child?

Where, pray, have you learnt that I intended to impose on you new

laws, to break with you, and send you back to the farthest part of the

world? do you really find this to be the tenor of my letter? in

anticipating the pleasure of living with you, I was fearful of those

inconveniencies, which I conceived might possibly arise; therefore

endeavoured to remove them, by making your fortune more equal to your

merit and the regard I had for you. This is my whole crime; is there

anything in it at which you have reason to be alarmed?

Indeed, my friend, you are in the wrong; for you are not ignorant how

dear you are to me, and how easy it is for you to obtain your wish

without seeking occasion to torment others or yourself.

You may be assured that, if your residence here is agreeable to you,

it will be equally so to me; and that nothing Mr. Wolmar has done for

me gives me greater satisfaction than the care he has taken to

establish you in this house. I agree to it with pleasure, and know we

shall be useful to each other. More ready to listen to good advice

than to suggest it to ourselves, we have both occasion for a guide?

who can be more sensible of the danger of going astray than he whose

return has cost him so dear? what object can better represent that

danger? after having broken through such connections as once subsisted

between us, the remembrance of them should influence us to do nothing

unworthy of the virtuous motives which induced us to break them. Yes,

I shall always think myself obliged to make you the witness of every

action of my life, and to communicate to you every sentiment with

which my heart is inspired. Ah! my friend! I may be weak before the

rest of the world, but I can answer for myself in your company.

It is in this delicacy, which always survives true love, and not in

Mr. Wolmar’s subtle distinctions, that we are to look for the cause of

that elevation of soul, that innate fortitude we experience. Such an

explication is at least more natural, and does more honour to our

hearts, than his, and has a greater tendency to encourage us to

virtue, which alone is sufficient to give it the preference. Hence you

may be assured, that, so far am I from being in such a whimsical

disposition as you imagine, that I am just the reverse. In so much

that, if the project of your returning to reside here must be given

up, I shall esteem such an event as a great misfortune to you, to me,

to my children, and even to my husband; on whose account alone you

know I have many reasons for desiring your presence. But to speak only

of my own particular inclination: you remember your first arrival. Did

I shew less pleasure at seeing you than you felt in seeing me? has it

ever appeared to you that your stay at Clarens gave me the least

trouble or uneasiness? did you think I betrayed the least pleasure at

your departure? must I go farther and speak to you with my usual

freedom? I will frankly confess to you then, that the six last months

we passed together were the happiest of my life, and that in that

short space of time I tasted all the happiness of which my sensibility

has furnished me the idea.

Never shall I forget one day, in particular, of the past winter, when,

after having been reading the journal of your voyages and that of your

friend’s adventures, we supped in the Apollo. It was then that,

reflecting on the felicity with which Providence had blessed me in

this world, I looked round and saw all my friends about me; my father,

my husband, my children, my cousin, Lord B----, and you, without

counting Fanny, who did not cast the least blemish on the scene. This

little saloon, said I to myself, contains all that is dear to my

heart, and perhaps all that is desirable in this world. I am here

surrounded by everything that interests me. The whole universe to me

is in this little spot. I enjoy at once the regard I have for my

friends, that which they have for me, and that which they have for

each other: their mutual goodwill either comes from or relates to me:

I see nothing but what seems to extend my being, and nothing to

divide it. I exist in a manner in all those who are about me: my

imagination can extend no farther. I have nothing more to desire: to

reflect and to be happy is with me the same thing; I live at once in

all that I love, I am replete with happiness and satisfied with life:

come death when thou wilt! I no longer dread thy power: the measure of

my life is full, and I have nothing new to experience worth enjoyment.

The greater pleasure I enjoyed in your company, the more agreeable is

it to me to reflect on it, and the more disquietude also hath every

thing given me that might disturb it. We will for a moment lay aside

that timid morality and pretended devotion, with which you reproach

me. You must confess at least that the social pleasures we tasted

sprung from that openness of heart, by which every thought, every

sentiment, of the one was communicated to the other, and from which

every one, conscious of being what he ought, appeared such as he

really was. Let us suppose now any secret intrigue, any connection

necessary to be concealed, any motive of reserve and secrecy intruding

on our harmony; that moment the reciprocal pleasure we felt in seeing

each other would vanish. Shyness and restraint would ensue; we should

no sooner meet together than we should wish to part; and at length

circumspection and decorum would bring on distrust and distaste. It is

impossible long to love those of whom we are afraid or suspicious.

They soon become troublesome----Eloisa troublesome!----troublesome to

her friend! no, no, that cannot be; there can be no evils in nature,

but such as it is possible to support.

In thus freely telling you my scruples, I do not pretend, however, to

make you change your resolutions; but to induce you to reconsider the

motives on which they are founded; lest, in taking a step, all the

consequences of which you may not foresee, you might have reason to

repent at a time, when you will not dare retract it. As to Mr.

Wolmar’s having no fears, it was not his place to fear, but yours. No

one is so proper a judge of what is to be feared of you, as yourself.

Consider the matter well then; and, if nothing is in reality to be

feared, tell me so, and I shall think of it no more: for I know your

sincerity, and never can distrust your intentions. Your heart may be

capable of an accidental error; but can never be guilty of a

premeditated crime, and this it is that makes the distinction between

a weak man and a wicked one.

Besides, though my objections had really more weight than I am

inclined to think they have, why must things be viewed in their most

disadvantageous light. Surely there can be no necessity for such

extreme precautionary measures. It cannot be requisite that you should

break through all your projects, and fly from us for ever. Though a

child in years, you are possessed of all the experience of age. The

tranquillity of mind which succeeds the noble passion, is a sensation

which increases by fruition. A susceptible heart may dread a state of

repose, to which it has been unaccustomed; but a little time is

sufficient to reconcile us to our peaceful situation, and in a little

time more we give it the preference. For my part, I foresee the hour

of your security to be nearer than you yourself imagine. Extremes, you

know, never last long; you have loved too much not to become in time

indifferent: the cinder which is cast from the furnace can never be

lighted again, but before it becomes such the coal must be totally

burnt out. Be vigilant but for a few years more, and you will then

have nothing to fear, your acceptance of my proposal would at once

have removed all danger; but, independent of that view, such an

attachment has charms enough to be desired for its own sake; and if

your delicacy prevents you from closing with my proposals, I have no

need to be informed how much such a restraint must cost you. At the

same time, however, I am afraid that the pretences which impose on

your reason, are many of them frivolous: I am afraid, that in piquing

yourself on the fulfilling of engagements which no longer exist, you

only make a false shew of virtue, in a constancy, for which you are by

no means to be commended, and which is at present entirely misplaced.

I have already told you, that I think the observance of a rash and

criminal vow is an additional crime. If yours were not so at first, it

is become so now; and that is sufficient to annul it. The promise

which no man ought to break, is that of being always a man of virtue

and resolute in the discharge of his duty; to change when that is

changed, is not levity, but constancy. And at all times as virtue

requires you to do, and you will never break your word. But if there

be among your scruples any solid objection, we will examine it at

leisure. In the mean time, I am not very sorry that you did not

embrace my scheme with the same avidity as I formed it; that my

blunder, if it be one, may give you less pain. I had meditated this

project during the absence of my cousin, with whom, however, I have

since had some general conversation on the subject of a second

marriage, and find her so averse to it, that, in spite of the regard

which I know she has for you, I am afraid I must exert a greater

authority than becomes me, to overcome her reluctance; for this is a

point in which friendship ought to respect the bent of the

inclinations.

I will own nevertheless that I still abide by my design; it would be

so agreeable to us all, would so honourably extricate you from your

present precarious situation in life; would so unite all our

interests, and makes so natural an obligation of that friendship which

is so delightful to all, that I cannot think of giving it up entirely.

No, my friend, you can never be too nearly allied to me; it is not

even enough that you might be my cousin; I could wish you were my

brother.

Whatever may be the consequence of these notions, do more justice to

my sentiments for you. Make use without reserve of my friendship, my

confidence and my esteem. Remember I shall not prescribe any rules to

you; nor do I think I have any reason to do it. Deny me not however

the privilege of giving you advice, but imagine not I lay you under

any commands. If you think you can securely reside at Clarens, come

hither; stay here: you cannot give me greater pleasure. But, if you

think a few years longer absence necessary to cure the suspicious

remains of impetuous youth, write to me often in your absence; come

and see us as often as you will, and let us cultivate a correspondence

founded on the most cordial intimacy.

What pains will not such consolation alleviate? what absence will not

be supportable under the pleasing hope of at last closing our days

together! I will do yet more; I am ready to put one of my children

under your care; I shall think him safer in your hands than my own;

and, when you bring him back, I know not which of you will give me the

greater pleasure by your return. On the other hand, if you become

entirely reasonable, banish your chimerical notions, and are willing

to deserve my cousin, come, pay her your best respects and make her

happy. Come then, and surmount every obstacle that opposes your

success and make a conquest of her heart: such assistance as my

friendship can give shall not on my part be wanting. Come, and make

each other happy, and nothing more will be wanting to render me

compleatly so. But, whatever resolution you take, after having

maturely considered the matter, speak confidently, and affront your

friend no more by your groundless suspicions.

Let me not however, in thinking so much of you, forget myself. My turn

to be heard must come at last; for you as with your friends in a

dispute, as with your adversaries at chess; you defend yourself by

attacking them. You excuse your being a philosopher by accusing me of

being a devotee. I am then, in your opinion a devotee, or ready to

become one: well be it so. Contemptible denominations never change the

nature of things. If devotion is commendable, why am I to blame in

being devout? But, perhaps that epithet is too low for you. The

dignity of the philosopher disdains the worship of the vulgar: it

would serve God in a more sublime manner, and raise even to heaven

itself its pretensions and its pride. Poor philosophers!----but to

return to myself.

I have, from my childhood, respected virtue, and have always

cultivated my reason. I endeavoured to regulate my conduct by human

understanding and sentiment, and have been ill conducted. Before you

deprive me of the guide I have chosen, give me another on which I may

depend. I thought myself as wise as other people, and yet a thousand

others have lived more prudently than I; they must therefore have had

resources which I had not. Why is it that I; knowing myself well born,

have had reason to conceal my life and conversation from the world?

why did I hate the sin which I committed even in spite of myself? I

thought I knew my own strength, I relied on it, and was deceived. All

the resistance which was in my own power, I think, I made; and yet I

fell----how must those have done who have escaped? they must have had

a better support.

From their example I was induced to seek the same support, and have

found in it a peculiar advantage which I did not expect. During the

reign of the passions, they themselves contribute to the continuance

of the anxieties they at first occasion; they retain hope always by

the tide of desire, and hence we are enabled to support the absence of

felicity: If our expectations are disappointed, hope supplies its

place; and the agreeable delusion lasts as long as the passion which

gave it birth. Thus, in a situation of this kind, passion supports

itself, and the very solicitude it causes is a chimerical pleasure

which is substituted for real enjoyment. Nay more: those who have no

desires must be very unhappy; they are deprived, if I may be allowed

the expression, of all they possess. We enjoy less that which we

obtain than that which we hope for, and are seldom happy but in

expectation. In fact, man, made to desire every thing and obtain

little, of boundless avarice yet narrow capacity, has received of

heaven a consolatory aid, which brings to him in idea every thing he

desires, displays it to his imagination, represents it to his view,

and in one sense makes it his own; but to render such imaginary

property still more flattering and agreeable, it is even modified to

his passion. But this shadow vanishes the moment the real object

appears; the imagination can no longer magnify that which we actually

possess, the charms of illusion cease, where those of enjoyment begin.

The world of fancy, therefore, the land of chimeras, is the only world

worthy to be inhabited; and such is the inanity of human enjoyments

that, except that Being which is self existent; there is nothing

delightful but that which has no existence at all.

If this effect does not always follow in the particular objects of our

passions, it is infallible in the common sentiment which includes the

whole. To live without pain is incompatible with our state of

mortality: it would be in fact to die. He who has every thing in his

power, if a creature, must be miserable, as he would be deprived of

the pleasure of desiring; than which every other want would be more

supportable. [103]

This is indeed what I have in part experienced since my marriage and

your return. Every thing around me gives me cause of content, and yet

I am not contented. A secret languor steals into the bottom of my

heart; I find it puffed up and void, as you formerly said was the case

with yours; all my attachments are not sufficient to fill it. This

disquietude I confess is strange: but it is nevertheless true. O my

friend! I am indeed too happy: my happiness is a burthen to me. Can you

think of a remedy for this disgust? for my part, I must own that a

sentiment so unreasonable and so involuntary, has in a great measure

diminished the value of life, and I cannot imagine what blessings it

can bestow which I want, or with which I should be satisfied. Can any

woman be more susceptible than I am? can she love her father, her

husband, her children, her friends, her relations better than I do?

can she be more generally beloved? can she lead a life more agreeable

to her taste? or can she be more at liberty to exchange it for any

other? can she enjoy better health? can she have more expedients to

divert her, or stronger ties to bind her to the world? and yet

notwithstanding all this, I am constantly uneasy: my heart yearns for

something of which it is entirely ignorant.

Therefore finding nothing on this globe capable of giving it

satisfaction, my desiring soul seeks an object in another world; in

elevating itself to the source of sentiment and existence, its languor

vanishes: it is reanimated, it acquires new strength and new life. It

thence obtains a new existence, independent of corporeal passions, or

rather it exists no longer in me, but in the immensity of the supreme

Being; and, disencumbered for a while from its terrestrial shackles,

returns to them again with patience, consoled with the expectation of

futurity.

You smile at all this, my good friend; I understand you. I have indeed

pronounced my own condemnation, having formerly censured the heart,

which I now approve. To this I have only one word to answer; and that

is, I then spoke without experience. I do not pretend to justify it in

every shape. I don’t pretend to say, this visionary taste is prudent,

I only say, it is a delightful supplement to that sense of happiness

which in other things exhausts itself by enjoyment. If it be

productive of evil, doubtless it ought to be rejected; if it deceives

the heart by false pleasure, it ought also on that account to be

rejected. But after all, which has the greater incentive to virtue,

the philosopher with his sublime maxims, or the Christian with his

humble simplicity? who is most happy even in this world, the sage with

his profound understanding, or the enthusiast with his rapture of

devotion? what business have I to think or imagine, when my faculties

are all in a manner alienated? will you say intoxication has its

pleasures? be it so, and be mine esteemed such if you will. Either

leave me in this agreeable delirium, or shew me a more delightful

situation.

I have condemned indeed the ecstasies of the mystics, and condemn them

still, when they serve to detach us from our duty; and, by raising in

us a disgust against an active life by the charms of contemplation,

seduce us into that state of quietism which you imagine me so near;

and from which I believe myself nevertheless to be as far distant as

yourself. I know very well that to serve God is not to pass our lives

on our knees in prayer; that it is to discharge on earth those

obligations which our duty requires; it is to do, with a view to

please him, every thing which the situation in which he hath placed us

demands.

_Il cor gradisce;

E serve a lui chi’l suo dover compisce._

We ought first to perform the duties of our station, and then pray

when we have time. This is the rule I have endeavoured to follow: I

don’t make that self examination, with which you reproach me, a task,

but a recreation. I don’t see why, among the pleasures that are within

my reach, I should be forbidden the most affecting and the most

innocent of all.

I have examined myself with more severity, since the receipt of your

letter. I have enquired into the effects which that pious inclination,

that so much displeases you, produces in my mind; and I can safely

say, I see nothing that should give me reason to fear, at least so

soon as you imagine, the evils of excessive and superfluous devotion.

In the first place, I have not so fervent a longing after this

exercise as to give me pain when I am deprived of an opportunity, nor

am I out of humour at every avocation from it. It never interrupts my

thoughts in the business of the day, nor gives me any disgust or

impatience in the discharge of my duty. If retirement be sometimes

necessary, it is when I have felt some disagreeable emotion, and am

better in my closet than elsewhere. It is there that, entering into

the examination of myself, I recover my temper and ease. If any care

troubles me, if any pain affects me, it is there I go and lay them

down. Every pain, every trouble vanishes before a greater object. In

reflecting on all the bounties of providence towards me, I am ashamed

to be sensible of such trifling ills, and to forget its greater

mercies. I require neither frequent nor long intervals of solitude.

When I am affected by involuntary sadness, the shedding a few tears

before him who is the comforter of hearts, relieves mine in an

instant. My reflections are never bitter nor grievous; even my

repentance is free from dread: my errors give me less cause of fear

than of shame; I regret that I have committed them, but I feel no

remorse, nor dread of their effects. The God I serve is a merciful

Being; a Father, whose goodness only affects me, and surpasses all his

other attributes. His power astonishes me; his immensity confounds my

ideas; his justice----but he has made man weak; and though he be just,

he is merciful. An avenging God is the God of the wicked. I can

neither fear him on my own account, nor pray for his vengeance to be

exerted against any other. It is the God of peace, the God of goodness

whom I adore. I know, I feel, I am the work of his hands, and trust to

see him at the last day such as he has manifested himself to my heart,

during my life.

It is impossible for me to tell you how many pleasing ideas hence

render my days agreeable, and give joy to my heart. In leaving my

closet in such a disposition, I feel myself more light and gay. Every

care vanishes, every embarrassment is removed; nothing rough or

disagreeable appears; but all is smooth and flowing: every thing wears

a pleasant countenance; it costs me no pains to be in good humour; I

love those better whom I loved before, and am still more agreeable to

them; even my husband is more pleased with the disposition which is

the effect of such rational devotion. Devotion, he says, is the opium

of the soul. When taken in small quantities, it enlivens, it animates,

it supports it: a stronger dose lulls it to sleep, enrages or destroys

it. I hope I shall never proceed to such extremes.

You see I am not so much offended at the title of devotee, as perhaps

you intended; but then I do not value it at the rate you imagine: yet

I would not have the term devotion applied to an affected external

deportment, and to a sort of employment which dispenses with every

other. Thus that Mrs. Guyon you mention, had in my opinion done better

to have carefully discharged her duty as mistress of her family, to

have educated her children in the Christian faith; and to have

governed her servants prudently, than to compose books of devotion,

dispute with bishops, and at last be imprisoned in the Bastille for

her unintelligible reveries.

I approve just as little of that mystical and metaphorical language,

which feeds the heart with chimeras, and in the place of spiritual

love, substitutes sentiments too nearly allied to carnal affections,

and too apt to excite them. The more susceptible the heart, or lively

the imagination, the more we ought to be on our guard against those

images by which they may be affected; for how can we see the relations

of the mystical object if we do not at the same time see the sensual;

and how can a modest woman have the assurance to contemplate those

objects in her imagination, which she would blush to look on?

But what sets me most against these devotees by profession, is that

affectation of manners which renders them insensible to humanity; that

excessive pride which makes them look down with pity on the rest of

mankind. If ever they condescend to stoop from their imaginary

elevation to do an act of charity, it is always done in a manner

extremely mortifying to the object: their pity is so cruel and

insulting, their justice is so rigid, their charity so severe, their

zeal so bitter, their contempt so much like hatred, that even the

insensibility of the rest of the world is less cruel than their pity.

Their love for heaven serves them as an excuse for loving nobody on

earth; they have even no affection for one another; nor is there an

instance of sincere friendship to be found among people of extreme

devotion. The more detached they affect to be from the world, the more

they expect from it; and one would think their devotion to God is

exerted only that they may have a pretext to exercise his authority

over the rest of his creatures.

I have such an aversion for all abuses of this kind as should

naturally be my security: if nevertheless I am doomed to fall, it will

not be voluntarily, and I hope, from the friendship of those who are

about me, that it will not be without warning. I must own, I now think

that it was possible for my former inquietude concerning my husband,

to have effected such a change. Happily, the prudent letter of my Lord

B----, to which you very reasonably refer me, together with his

sensible and consolatory conversation, as well as yours, have entirely

dissipated my fears and changed my principles. I now see plainly that

an intolerant spirit must by degrees become obdurate. For what charity

can be long preserved for those who we think must inevitably be

damned? to love them would be to hate God for punishing them. To act

then on principles of humanity, we must take upon ourselves to

condemn actions only, and not men. Let us not assume the horrible

function of devils. Let us not so lightly throw open the gates of hell

for our fellow creatures. Alas! if all those are destined to be

eternally miserable who deceive themselves, where is the mortal who

can avoid it?

O my friends! of what a load have you eased my heart? In teaching me

that an error in judgment is no crime, you have delivered me from a

thousand tormenting scruples. I leave to others the subtle

interpretation of dogmas which I do not comprehend, and content myself

with those glaring truths which strike and at once convince me; those

practical truths which instruct me in my duty. As to any thing

farther, I abide by the rule of your old answer to Mr. Wolmar. A man

is not master of his own sentiments to believe or disbelieve what he

pleases. Can it be a crime for one not to be a logician? no, it is not

the business of conscience to instruct us in the truth of things, but

in the maxims of our duty. It does not teach us to reason well, but to

act aright. In what can my husband be criminal before God? does he

turn his eye from the contemplation of the deity? God himself hath hid

his face from his view. He does not shun the truth; the truth avoids

him. He is not actuated by pride; he does not seek to convert any one

to his own opinion. He is glad they are of a different one. He

approves of our sentiments, he wishes he had the same, but cannot. He

is deprived of our consolations and our hopes. He acts uprightly

without even expecting a recompense: he is in fact more virtuous, more

disinterested than we. He is indeed truly to be pitied! but wherefore

should he be punished? no: goodness, sincerity, honesty, virtue, these

are what heaven requires, and what it will undoubtedly reward: these

constitute the true service which the deity requires, and that service

Mr. Wolmar most uniformly performs. If God judges of our faith by our

words, to be truly virtuous is to believe in him. A true Christian is

a virtuous man: the real infidels are the vicious.

Be not surprized, therefore, my dear friend, that I do not dispute

with you many particulars of your letter, concerning which we are not

of the same opinion. I know too well what you are, to be in pain about

what you believe. What do all those idle questions about free agency

concern me? whether I myself have the power to do good, or can obtain

it by prayer, if in the end I am enabled to do it, does it not amount

to the same thing? whether I acquire what is wanting by asking for it,

or the deity grants it to my prayers, if it be necessary to ask in

order to have it, is not this a sufficient explanation? happy enough

to agree about the principal articles of our faith, why need we

enquire farther? ought we to be desirous of penetrating into the

bottomless abyss of metaphysics, and, in disputing about the divine

essence, throw away the short time which is allotted us here to revere

and honour the deity? we are ignorant what he is; but we know that he

exists, and that is sufficient: he manifests himself in his works, we

feel him constantly within us. We may dispute, but cannot sincerely

disbelieve his existence. He has given us that degree of sensibility

which enables us to perceive, to embrace him; let us pity those to

whom he has not imparted such a portion of susceptibility, without

flattering ourselves that we shall be able to make them sensible of

what they cannot see. Let us respect his decrees in silence and do our

duty: this is the best method to make proselytes.

Do you know any man of better sense or a more enlightened

understanding than Mr. Wolmar? do you know any one more sincere, more

upright, more just, less subject to the control of his passions; who

will be a greater gainer by divine justice or the soul’s immortality?

Do you know any man more nervous, more sublime, more convincing in a

dispute than Lord B----? is there any person by his virtue more worthy

of entering on the defence of the cause of God, more certain of his

existence, more sincerely penetrated with the idea of divine majesty,

more zealous for his glory and more capable of supporting it? yet you

have been a witness of what passed during three months at Clarens: you

have seen two men, having the highest esteem and respect for each

other, and equally disdainful of the pedantry and quirk of scholastic

logic, pass a whole winter in prudent and peaceful as well as lively

and profound argumentations, with a view to convert each other; you

have seen them attack and defend themselves and take every advantage

of which human understanding is capable; and that on a subject wherein

both, being equally interested, desired nothing so earnestly as to be

of one mind.

What was the consequence? their mutual esteem is augmented, and yet

both retain their former sentiments: if such an example does not

for ever cure a prudent man of the rage of dispute, the love of truth

I am sure never will.

For my part, I have thrown aside, and that for ever, such an useless

weapon; and am determined never to mention a single word more to my

husband about religion, unless it be to give a reason for mine. Not

that a notion of divine toleration has rendered me indifferent to his.

I must confess that, though I am become tranquil about his future

state, I do not find I am the less zealous for his conversion. I would

lay down my life to see him once convinced of the truth of divine

revelation, if not for the sake of his future happiness, at least for

his happiness in this life. For of how many pleasures is he not on

this account deprived? what sentiments can give him comfort in his

afflictions? what spectator excites him to those good deeds he

performs in secret? what reward does he hope for from his virtue? how

can he look upon death? no, I hope he will not meet it in this

terrible situation. There remains but one expedient more for me to try

to prevent it; and to that I consecrate the remainder of my life. This

is not to convince, but to affect him; to set him a prevailing

example, and to make religion so amiable that he shall not be able to

resist her charms. Ah! my friend! what a forcible argument against

infidelity is the life of a true Christian? do you believe there is a

being on earth proof against it? this is the task I impose on myself

for the future; assist me to perform it. Mr. Wolmar is cold, but not

insensible. What a picture might we lay open to his heart? his

friends, his children, his wife all uniting to his edification! When

without preaching about God in our discourses, we shall demonstrate

him by those actions which he inspires, by those virtues of which he

is the author, by the pleasure we take in his service: when he shall

see a sketch of paradise in his own house; when an hundred times a day

he shall be compelled to cry out: “human nature is of itself incapable

of this; something divine must prevail here.”

If my enterprise pleases you, if you find yourself worthy to concur in

it, come and let us pass our days together, and never part more till

death. If the project displeases or frightens you, listen to the

dictates of your conscience; that will teach you your duty. I have no

more to say. Agreeable to what Lord B---- intimates, I shall expect

you both towards the latter end of next month. You will hardly know

your apartment again; but in the alteration made in it you will

discover the care of a good friend, who took a pleasure in ornamenting

it for you. You will find there, also, a small assortment of books,

which she bought for you at Geneva, of a better taste than the

_Adonis_; not, but that for the jest’s sake you will find that too.

You must however be discreet; for, as she would not have you know this

is her doing, I hasten to finish my letter before she comes to forbid

my speaking of it. Adieu, my dear friend; our party of pleasure to the

castle of Chillon will take place tomorrow without you. It will not

be the better for that. The bailiff has invited us with our children,

which leaves me no excuse: but I know not why, and yet I cannot help

wishing we were safe returned.

Letter CLIX. From Fanny Anet.

Oh sir! O my benefactor! what tidings do they order me to write to

you! Madam----my poor mistress----good God! methinks I see already how

frightened you are! but you cannot see the affliction we are all in

here.----But I have not a moment to lose----I must tell you.----I

must run----Oh that I had already told you all!----what will become of

you, when you know our misfortune! The whole family went out yesterday

to dine at Chillon. The baron, who was going into Savoy to spend some

days at the castle of Blonay, went away after dinner.

The company attended him a little way, and afterwards walked along the

dyke. Mrs. Orbe and the bailiff’s lady went before with my master; my

mistress followed, having hold by one hand of Harriot and by the other

of Marcellin. I came after with the eldest. His honour, the bailiff,

who had staid behind to speak to some body, came up; and joining the

company, offered my mistress his arm; which, in order to accept of,

she sent Marcellin to me. I ran forward to meet him while the child

did the same towards me; but, in running, his foot slipped and he fell

unhappily into the water. I screamed out, when my mistress, turning

her head and seeing the child in the water, flew back in an instant

and threw herself in after him.

Unhappy that I am! why did I not throw myself in too! better had I

been drowned on the spot! with difficulty I kept the eldest from

leaping after its mother; who kept struggling with the other in her

arms.----No boat, nor people were at hand, so that some time past

before they could be got out of the water----the child soon recovered,

but as for the mother----the fright, the fall, the condition she was

in----ah none knows better than I the danger of such a fall! She was

taken out and remained a good while insensible. The moment she came to

herself, she enquired eagerly after the child----heavens! with what

transport did she embrace him! I thought she was quite well again; but

her spirits lasted her but for a moment: she insisted on being brought

home, but fainted away several times during the journey. By some

orders she gave me, I saw she believed she should not recover. Her

fears were alas! too true! she will never recover. Mrs. Orbe is a good

deal more altered than she. They are all distracted; I am the most

sensible in the whole house----Why should I be uneasy? ah! my good

mistress, if I love you, I shall never have occasion for another.----

Oh my dear sir! may heaven enable you to support this trial! adieu!

the physician is this moment coming out of the chamber. I must run to

meet him----if he gives me hopes, I will let you know it. If I say

nothing, you will know too well the cause.

Letter CLX. From Mrs. Orbe.

Imprudent, unfortunate man! unhappy dreamer! you will now indeed never

see her more----the veil----Eloisa is no more.----

She has herself written to you, I refer you to her letter: respect, I

charge you, her last request. Great and many are the obligations you

have to discharge on this side the grave.----

Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.

I was unwilling to interrupt the first transports of your grief: my

writing to you would but have aggravated your sorrow, as I was no

better qualified to relate than you to read our sad tale. At present,

possibly, such a relation may not be disagreeable to both. As nothing

remains but the remembrance of her, my heart takes a delight in

recalling every token of that remembrance to my mind. You will have

some consolation in shedding tears to her memory; but of that grand

relief of the unfortunate I am constitutionally deprived, and am

therefore more unhappy than you.

It is not, however, of her illness, but of herself, I would write.

Another might have thrown herself into the water to save her child.

Such an accident, her fever, her death are natural; and may be common

to other mortals: but the employment of her last moments, her

conversation, her sentiments, her fortitude, all these are peculiar to

Eloisa. She was no less singular in the hour of death than she had

been during the whole course of her life; and as I was the sole

witness to many particulars, you can learn them from me alone.

You already know that her fright, her agitation, the fall, and the

water she had imbibed, thew her into fainting fits, from which she did

not recover till after she was brought home. On being carried into the

house, she asked again for the child; the child was brought; and,

seeing him walk about and return her caresses, she became apparently

easy, and consented to take a little rest. Her sleep was but short,

and as the physician was not yet come, she made us sit round on the

bed; that is, Fanny, her cousin and me. She talked to us about her

children, of the great diligence and care which her plan of education

required, and of the danger of a moment’s neglect. Without making her

illness of any great importance, she foresaw, she said, that it would

prevent her for some time from discharging her part of that duty, and

charged us to divide it amongst us.

She enlarged on her own projects, on yours, on the most proper means

to carry them into execution; on the observations she had made as to

what would promote or injure them; and, in a word, on every thing

which might enable us to supply her place, in the discharge of the

duties of a mother, so long as she might be prevented from it herself.

I thought so much precaution unnecessary for one who imagined she

should be prevented from exercising such employment only for a few

days: but what added to my apprehensions was to hear her enter into a

long and particular charge respecting Harriot. As to her sons, she

contented herself with what concerned their education in the earliest

infancy, as if relying on another for the care of their youth.

But in speaking of Harriot, she went farther, extending her remarks

even to her coming-of-age; and, being sensible that nothing could

supply the place of those reflections which her own experience

dictated, she gave us a clear: and methodical abstract of the plan of

education she had laid down, recommending it to the mother in the most

lively and affecting manner.

All these exhortations, respecting the education of young persons and

the duty of mothers, mixt with frequent applications to herself, could

not fail to render the conversation extremely interesting: I saw

indeed that it affected her too much. In the mean time, her cousin

held one of her hands, pressing it every now and then to her lips, and

bathing it with tears, at every reply: Fanny was not less moved; and

as for Eloisa herself, I observed the big tears swell out of her eyes

and steal down her cheeks; but she was afraid to let us see she wept,

lest it should alarm us. But I then saw, that she knew her life was

drawing towards its final period. My only hope was that her fears

might deceive her, and represent the danger greater than it really

was. Unhappily, however, I knew her too well to build much upon such a

deception. I endeavoured several times to stop her, and at last begged

of her not to waste her spirits by talking so much at once on a

subject which might be continued at our leisure. Ah! my dear, replied

she, don’t you know that nothing hurts a woman so much as silence?

and, since I find myself a little feverish, I may as well employ my

discourse about useful matters as prattle away the time about trifles.

The arrival of the physician put the whole house into a confusion,

which it is impossible to describe. All the domestics were gathered

about the door of the chamber, where they waited with their arms

folded and anxious looks, to know his opinion of their mistress’s

situation, as if their own destiny were depending. This sight threw

poor Mrs. Orbe into such an agony of grief, that I began to be afraid

for her senses. Under different pretences, therefore, I dismissed

them, that their presence might no longer affect her. The physician

gave us indeed a little hope, but in such vague terms that it served

to convince me there was none. Eloisa was also reserved on account of

her cousin. When the doctor left the chamber I followed him, which

Clara was also going to do; but Eloisa detained her, and gave me a

wink which I understood, and therefore immediately told the physician,

that if there were any real danger he should as carefully conceal it

from Mrs. Orbe as from the patient, lest her despair should render her

incapable of attending her friend. He told me the case was indeed

dangerous, but that four and twenty hours being hardly elapsed since

the accident, it required more time to form a certain judgment; that

the succeeding night might determine the fate of the patient; but that

he could not positively pronounce any thing till the third day. Fanny

alone was by, on his saying this, on whom we prevailed with some

difficulty to stifle her emotions, and agreed upon what was proper to

tell Mrs. Orbe and the rest of the family.

Toward the evening, Eloisa prevailed with her cousin, who had sat up

with her the preceding night, and was desirous of continuing her

vigilance, to go to bed for some hours. In the mean time, the patient

being informed that she was to be bled in the foot, and that the

physician was prescribing for her, she sent for him to her bedside and

addressed him thus.

“Mr. Bouffon, when it is necessary to flatter a timid patient as to

the danger of his case, the precaution is humane, and I approve of it;

but it is a piece of cruelty to lavish equally on all, the

disagreeable remedies which to many may be superfluous. Prescribe for

me every thing that you think will be really useful, and I will

punctually follow your prescriptions. But as to those of mere

experiment, I beg you will excuse me: it is my body and not my mind

which is disordered; and I am not afraid to end my days, but to

misspend those which remain. The last moments of life are too precious

to be thrown away. If you cannot prolong mine, therefore, I beg you

will at least not shorten them, by preventing me from employing them

as I ought. Either recover me entirely, or leave me; I can die alone.”

Thus, my friend, did this woman, so mild and timid on ordinary

occasions, know how to exert herself in a resolute and serious manner

at this important crisis.

The night was cruel and decisive. Suffocation, oppression, fainting,

her skin dry and burning. An ardent fever tormented her, during the

continuance of which she was heard frequently to call out _Marcellin_,

as if to prevent his running into the water, and to pronounce also

another name, formerly repeated on a like occasion. The next day the

physician told me plainly, that he did not think she could live three

days. I alone was made privy to this afflicting piece of information,

and the most terrible hour of my life was that wherein I kept it a

secret in my breast, without knowing what use to make of it. I strayed

out alone into the garden, musing on the measures I ought to take; not

without many afflicting reflections on the misfortune of being reduced

in the last stage of life to that solitude, of which I was

sufficiently tired, even before I had experienced a more agreeable

one.

I had promised Eloisa the night before, to tell her faithfully the

opinion of the physician, and she had engaged me by every prevailing

argument to keep my word. I felt that engagement on my conscience: but

what to do, I was greatly at a loss! Shall I, said I to myself, in

order to discharge an useless and chimerical duty, afflict her soul

with the news, and lengthen the pangs of death? to tell her the hour

of her dissolution, is it not in fact to anticipate the fatal moment?

in so short an interval what will become of the desires, the hopes,

the elements of life? shall I kill my Eloisa?

Thus meditating on what I should do, I walked on with long and hasty

strides, and in an agitation of mind I had never before experienced.

It was not in my power to shake off the painful anxiety; it remained

an insupportable weight on my spirits. At length I was determined by a

sudden thought.

For whose sake, said I, do I deliberate? for hers, or for mine? on

whose principles do I reason? is it on her system or my own? What

demonstration have I of the truth? In support of her system she also

has nothing but opinion; but that opinion carries with it the force of

evidence, and is in her eyes a demonstration. What right have I, in a

matter which relates chiefly to her, to prefer my opinion, which I

acknowledge to be doubtful, to hers which she thinks demonstrated? let

us compare the consequences of both. According to hers, her

disposition in the last hour of her life will decide her fate to all

eternity. According to mine, all that I can do for her will be a

matter of indifference in three days. According to my system, she will

be then insensible to every thing: but if she be in the right, what a

difference will there be! eternal happiness or misery! Perhaps----that

word is terrible----wretch! risk thy own soul and not hers.

This was the first doubt I ever had concerning that scepticism you

have so often attacked; but it was not the last. This doubt however

freed me from the other. I immediately resolved; and for fear my mind

should change, ran directly to Eloisa’s chamber; where, after

dismissing every body from their attendance, I sat down by her

bedside. I did not make use of those trifling precautions which are

necessary with little minds. I was indeed for some time silent; but

she looked at me and seemed to read my thoughts. Then, holding out her

hand, do you think, said she, you bring me news? no, my dear friend, I

know it already; the cold hand of death is upon me; we must part for

ever.

She proceeded, and continued with me a long conversation, of which I

may one day give you an account; and during which she engraved her

testament on my heart. If I had indeed been ignorant of her

disposition before, her temper of mind at this time would sufficiently

have informed me.

She asked me, if her danger was known in the house. I told her, every

one was greatly apprehensive; but that they knew nothing for certain;

and that the physician had acquainted me only with his opinion. On

this she conjured me carefully to keep it a secret for the remainder

of the day. Clara, continued she, will not be able to support this

stroke, unless it comes from my hand. I shall take upon me that

affecting office tonight. It is chiefly for this reason that I desired

to have the advice of a physician, that I might not subject her

unnecessarily, and merely on my own suggestions to so cruel a trial.

Take care that she may know nothing of it before the time, or you will

certainly risk the loss of a friend, and your children that of a

mother.

She then asked me after her father. I owned that I had sent an express

to him: but took care to conceal from her, that the messenger, instead

of contenting himself with delivering my letter, as I had ordered him,

blundered out a story, from which my old friend, falsely collecting

that his daughter was drowned, fell down stairs in a swoon and hurt

himself; so that he kept his bed at Blonay. The hopes of seeing her

father, affected her very sensibly, and the certainty I had of the

vanity of such hope, had no small share in my uneasiness.

The paroxysms of the preceding night had rendered her extremely weak:

nor did this long conversation at all increase her strength. In this

feeble situation, therefore, she strove to get a little sleep in the

day time; nor did I know, till two days after, that she did not sleep

the whole time. The family continued in great anxiety; every one

waiting in mournful silence for each other to remove their uneasiness,

yet, without daring to ask any questions for fear of being told more

than they wished to know. If there were any good news, they said to

themselves, every one would be eager enough to tell it; and the bad we

shall know but too soon. In this terrible suspense they were satisfied

so long as they heard of no alteration for the worse. Amidst this

dreadful silence, Mrs. Orbe only was active and talkative. As soon as

she came out of Eloisa’s chamber, instead of going to rest, she ran up

and down the house, asking what the doctor said to the one, and to the

other. She had sat up all the preceding night, and could not be

ignorant of what she had seen; but she strove even to impose on

herself and to distrust the evidence of her senses. Those she

interrogated always giving her favourable answers, encouraged her to

ask others, which she continued to do with such an air of solicitude

and poignant distress, that whoever had known the truth could not have

been prevailed upon to tell it her.

In the presence of Eloisa she concealed her anxiety, and indeed the

affecting object which she had before her eyes was sufficiently

afflicting to suppress her vivacity. She was above all things

solicitous to hide her fears from Eloisa; but she could very ill

conceal them. Her trouble even appeared in her affectation to hide it.

Eloisa, on her part also, spared no pains to deceive her cousin, as to

the true state of her case. Without making light of her illness, she

affected to speak of it as a thing that was already past, seeming

uneasy only at the time necessary to restore her. How greatly did I

suffer to see them mutually striving to comfort each other, while I

knew that neither of them entertained that hope in their own breasts,

with which each endeavoured to inspire the other.

Mrs. Orbe had sat up the two preceding nights and had not been

undressed for three days. Eloisa proposed, therefore, that she should

retire to her own bed: but she refused. Well, then, said Eloisa, let a

little bed be made up for you in my chamber; if, added she, as if she

had just thought of it, you will not take part of mine? come, my dear,

says she, what say you? I am not worse, and, if you have no objection

you shall sleep with me. This proposal was accepted. For my part, they

turned me out of the room, and really I stood in need of rest.

I rose early the next morning; and, being anxious for what might have

passed in the night, as soon as I heard them stirring, I went into her

chamber. From the situation in which Mrs. Orbe appeared the preceding

evening, I expected to find her extremely agitated. In entering the

room, however, I saw her sitting on the settee, spiritless and pale,

or rather of a livid complexion: her eyes heavy and dead; yet, she

appeared calm and tranquil, but spoke little; as for Eloisa, she

appeared less feeble than over night; the tone of her voice was

strong, and her gesture animated; she seemed indeed to have borrowed

the vivacity of her cousin. I could easily perceive, however, that

this promising appearance was in a great measure the effect of her

fever; but I remarked also in her looks that something had given her

a secret joy which contributed to it not a little; but of which I

could not discover the cause. The physician confirmed his former

opinion, the patient continued also in the same sentiments, and there

remained no hope.

Being obliged to leave her for some time, I observed, in coming again

into her apartment, that every thing appeared in great order. She had

caused flower-pots to be placed on the chimney piece; her curtains

were half open and tied back; the air of the room was changed, a

grateful odour every where diffusing itself, so that no one would have

taken it for the bed chamber of the sick. The same taste and elegance

appeared also in her deshabille; all which gave her rather the air of

a woman of quality, waiting to receive company, than of a country lady

who was preparing for her last moments. She saw my surprise, smiled at

it, and guessing my sentiments was going to speak to me, when the

children were brought into the room. These now engaged her attention;

and you may judge whether, finding herself ready to part from them for

ever, her caresses were cold or moderate. I even took notice that she

turned oftener, and with more warmth, to him who was the cause of her

death, as if he was become more dear to her on that account.

These embraces, sighs and transports were all mysterious to the poor

children. They loved her indeed tenderly; but it was with that

tenderness peculiar to their age. They comprehended nothing of her

condition, of the repetition of her caresses, of her regret at never

seeing them more: as they saw us sorrowful and affected, they wept;

but knew nothing more. We may teach children to repeat the word death;

but we cannot give them any idea of it: they neither fear it for

themselves or others; they fear to suffer pain, but not to die. When

the excess of pain drew complaints from their poor mother, they

pierced the air with their cries; but when we talked to them of losing

her, they seemed stupid and comprehended nothing. Harriot alone, being

a little older than the others, and of a sex in which understanding

and sentiment appear earlier than in the other, seemed troubled and

frightened to see her little mamma in bed, whom she used always to see

stirring about with her children. I remember that, on this occasion,

Eloisa made a reflection quite in character, on the ridiculous vanity

of Vespasian, who kept his bed so long as he was able to do any thing,

and rose when he could do no more. [104] I know not, says she, if it

be necessary that an emperor should die out of his bed? but this I

know that the mother of a family should never take to her bed, unless

to die.

After having wept over the children, and taken every one of them

apart, particularly Harriot, whom she kept sometime, and who lamented

and sobbed grievously. She called them all three together; gave them

her blessing, and, pointing to Mrs. Orbe, go, my children, said she,

go, and throw yourselves at the feet of your mother: this is she whom

Providence has given you, depriving you of nothing in taking me.

Immediately they all ran to her, threw themselves on their knees, and,

laying hold of her hands, called her their good mamma, their second

mother. Clara stooped forward to embrace them, but strove in vain to

speak; she could only utter a few broken and imperfect exclamations,

amidst sighs and sobs that stifled her voice. Judge if Eloisa was not

moved! the scene indeed became too affecting: for which reason I

interrupted it.

As soon as it was over, we sat down again round the bed; and, though

the vivacity of Eloisa was a little suppressed by the foregoing scene,

she preserved the same air of content in her looks; she talked on

every subject with all that attention and regard which bespeaks a mind

at ease; nothing escaped her; she was as intent on the conversation as

if she had nothing else to think of. She proposed that we should dine

in her chamber, that she might have as much of our company as possible

for the short time she had to live: you may believe this proposal was

not on our part rejected.

The dinner was served up without noise, confusion or disorder, but

with as much regularity as if it had been in the Apollo. Fanny and the

children dined with us. Eloisa, taking notice that every one wanted an

appetite, had the art to prevail on us to eat of almost every thing;

one time by pretending to instruct the cook, at another by asking

whether she might not venture to taste this or that, and then by

recommending it to us to take care of our health, without which we

should not be capable of doing her the service her illness required.

In short, no mistress of a family, however solicitous to do the

honours of her house, could in full health have shewn, even to

strangers, more obliging, or more amiable marks of her kindness, than

those which dying Eloisa expressed for her family. Nothing of what I

expected happened, nothing of what really happened ever entered my

head. In short I was lost in astonishment.

After dinner, word was brought up that the clergyman was come. He came

as a friend to the family, as he often favoured us with a visit.

Though I had not sent for him, as Eloisa did not request it, I must

confess to you, I was pleased to hear he was come, and imagine the

most zealous believer could not on the same occasion have welcomed him

with greater pleasure. His presence indeed promised the removal of

many of my doubts, and some relief from my perplexity.

You will recollect the motives for my telling her of her approaching

end. By the effect which, according to my notions, such a shocking

piece of information should have had on her, how could I conceive that

which it really had? how could I imagine that a woman, so devout as

not to pass a day, when in health, without meditation, who made the

exercise of prayer her delight and amusement, should at such a time as

this, when she had but two days to live; when she was just ready to

appear before her awful judge, instead of making peace with God and

her conscience, amuse herself in ornamenting her chamber, chatting

with her friends, and diverting them at their meals, without ever

dropping a word concerning God’s grace, or her own salvation? what

could I think of her, and her real sentiments? how could I reconcile

her conduct with the notions I had entertained of her piety? how could

I reconcile the use she made of her last moments to what she had said

to the physician, of their great importance? all this appeared to me

an inexplicable enigma; for though I did not expect to find her

practising all the hypocritical airs of the devotees, it seemed to me,

however, high time to think of what she judged of so much importance,

and that it should suffer no delay. If one is devout amidst the noise

and hurry of life, how can one be otherwise at the moment we are going

to quit it, and when there remains no longer time to think of another?

These reflections led me farther than I thought I ever should proceed.

I began to be uneasy lest my opinions, indiscreetly maintained, might

at length have gained too much upon her belief. I had not adopted

hers, and yet I was not willing that she should have renounced them.

Had I been sick, I should certainly have died in my own way of

thinking, but I was desirous that she should die also in hers. These

contradictory notions will appear to you very extravagant; I myself do

not find them very reasonable: they were, however, such as really

suggested themselves, at that time. I do not undertake to justify, I

only relate them.

At length the time drew near, when my doubts were to be cleared up:

for it was easy to see that, sooner or later, the minister would turn

the conversation on the object of his duty; and though Eloisa had been

capable of disguising her sentiments, it would be too difficult for

her to do it in such a manner that a person, attentive and

prepossessed as I was, should not see through the disguise.

It soon after happened as I expected. To pass over, however, the

commonplace compliments with which this worthy clergyman introduced

the subject, as well as the affecting manner in which he represented

the happiness of crowning a well-spent life by a Christian exit; he

added, that he had indeed remembered her to have maintained opinions,

on some points, different from those of the church, or such as may be

most reasonably deduced from the sacred writings; but that, as she had

never persisted in defending them, he hoped she would die, as she had

lived, in the communion of the faithful, and acquiesce in all the

particulars of their common confession.

As Eloisa’s answer removed at once all my doubts, and differed a good

deal from the commonplace discourses on such occasions, I shall give

it you almost word for word; for I listened to it very attentively,

and committed it to paper immediately after.

“Permit me, sir, said she, to begin by thanking you for all the care

you have taken to conduct me in the paths of virtue and Christianity,

and for that complacency with which you have borne with my errors when

I have gone astray. Filled with a due respect for your zeal, as well

as gratitude for all your goodness, I declare with pleasure that it is

to you I am indebted for all my good resolutions, and that you have

always directed me to do what was right, and to believe what was true.

“I have lived and I die in the protestant communion, whose maxims are

deduced from scripture and reason; concerning which my heart hath

always confirmed what my lips uttered; and though I may not have had

always that docility in regard to your precepts which perhaps I ought,

it has arisen from my aversion to all kind of hypocrisy: that which I

could not believe, I never could profess; I have always sincerely

sought what was most conformable to truth, and the glory of my

Creator. I may have been deceived in my research; I have not the

vanity to think I have always been in the right. I may, indeed, have

been constantly in the wrong; but my intention has been invariably

good. This was as much as was in my own power. If God did not

vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding farther, he is too merciful

and just to demand of me an account of what he has not committed to my

care.

“This, sir, is all I think necessary to say on the opinions I profess.

As to the rest, let my present situation answer for me. With my head

distracted by illness and subjected to the delirium of a fever, is it

now a proper time to endeavour to reason better than I did when in

health? when my understanding was unimpaired and as sound as I

received it from my Maker,----if I was deceived then, am I less

subject to be so now? and in my present weakness, does it depend on me

to believe otherwise than I did when in full health and strength of

body and mind? It is our reason which determines our belief, but mine

has lost its best faculties; what dependence then could be made on the

opinions I should now adopt without it? what now remains for me to do,

is to appeal to what I believed before; for the uprightness of my

intention is the same, though I have lost my judgment. If I am in an

error, I am sorry for and detest it; and this is sufficient to set my

heart at ease as to my belief.

“With respect to my preparation for death; that, sir, is made; badly

indeed I own, but it is done in the best manner I could; and at least

much better than I can do it now. I endeavoured to discharge that

important part of my duty before I became incapable of it. I prayed in

health;----when I was strong, I struggled with divine grace for favour;

at present, now I am weak, I am resigned, and rely upon it. The best

prayers of the sick, are patience and resignation. The preparation of

death, is a good life; I know of no other. While I conversed with you,

while I meditated by myself, while I endeavoured to discharge the

duties which Providence ordained for me; it was then I was preparing

myself for death: for meeting my God and judge at my last hour. It was

then I adored him with all my faculties and powers; what more can I

now do, when I have lost them? is my languid soul in a condition to

raise itself to the Almighty? this remnant of a half extinguished

life, absorbed in pain, is it worthy of being offered up to God? no,

sir, he leaves it me to employ it for those he taught me to love, and

from whom it is his sovereign will that I should now depart: I am

going to leave them to go to him, it is therefore with them I should

now concern myself; I shall soon have nothing to do but with him

alone: the last pleasure I take on earth shall be in doing my last

duty; is not that to serve him, and do his will; to discharge all

those duties which humanity enjoins me before I throw it off entirely?

what have I to do to calm troubles which I have not? my conscience is

not troubled: if sometimes it has accused me, it has done it more when

I was in health than at present. It tells me now that God is more

merciful than I am criminal; and my confidence increases as I find I

approach nearer to him. I do not present him with an imperfect, tardy,

or forced repentance, which, dictated by fear, can never be truly

sincere, and is only a snare by which the false penitent is deceived.

I do not present him with the service of the remnant and latter end of

my days, full of pain and sorrow, a prey to sickness, grief, anxiety,

death; and which I would not dedicate to his service till I could do

nothing else. No, I present before him my whole life, full indeed of

errors and faults, but exempt from the remorse of the impious, and the

crimes of the wicked.

“To what punishment can a just God condemn me? the reprobate, it is

said, hate him. Must he not first make me not love him? no, I fear not

to be found one of that number. O thou great eternal being! supreme

intelligence! source of life and happiness! creator! preserver!

father! lord of nature! God powerful and good, of whose existence I

never doubted for a moment and under whose eye I have always delighted

to live! I know, I rejoice that I am going to appear before thy

throne. In a few days my soul, delivered from its earthly tabernacle,

shall begin to pay thee more worthily that immortal homage which will

constitute my happiness to all eternity. I look upon what I shall be,

till that moment comes, as nothing. My body, indeed, still lives; but

my intellectual life is at an end. I am at the end of my career, and

am already judged from what is past. To suffer, to die, is all that I

have now to do: and this is nature’s work. I have endeavoured to live

in such a manner as to have no occasion to concern myself at death,

and now it approaches, I see it without fear. Those who sleep on the

bosom of a father, are in no fear of being awaked.”

This discourse, begun in a grave and slow voice, and ending in a more

elevated and animated tone, made on everyone present, myself not

excepted, an impression the more lively, as the eyes of her who

pronounced it seemed to sparkle with a supernatural fire; rays of

light seemed to encircle her brow; and, if there be any thing in this

world which deserves the name of celestial, it was certainly the face

of Eloisa, while she was thus speaking.

The minister himself was transported at what he heard; and, lifting up

his hands and eyes to heaven, good God! said he, behold the worship

that truly honours thee! deign to render it propitious; for how seldom

do mortals offer thee the like! Madam, continued he, turning to Eloisa

and approaching her bed, I thought to have instructed you, but have

myself been instructed. I have nothing farther to say. You have that

true faith, which knows how to love God. Bear with you that precious

repose and testimony of a good conscience, and believe me it will not

deceive you. I have seen many Christians in your situation, but never

before saw any thing like this. What a difference between such a

peaceful end, and that of those terrified sinners, who implore heaven

with vain and idle prayers unworthy to be heard. Your death, madam, is

as exemplary as your life: you have lived to exercise your charity to

mankind, and die a martyr to maternal tenderness. Whether it please

God to restore you to us, to serve us as an example, or whether he is

pleased to call you to himself to crown your virtue with its due

reward, may we all so long as we survive, live like you, and in the

end follow your example in death; we shall then be certain of

happiness in another life.

He offered now to take his leave; but Eloisa prevailed on him to stay.

You are one of my friends, said she to him, and one of those I take

the greatest pleasure to see; it is for those my last moments are so

precious. We are going to part for too long a time, to part so soon

now. He was well pleased to stay, and I went out and left them.

At my return, I found the conversation continued still on the same

subject; but in a less interesting manner. The minister complained

much of that false notion, which makes religion only of use to persons

on their deathbed, and represents its ministers as men of ill omen. We

are looked upon, says he, in common rather as the messengers of sorrow

and death, than of the glad tidings of life and salvation: and that

because, from the convenient opinion of the world that a quarter of an

hour’s repentance is sufficient to efface fifty years of guilt, we are

only welcome at such a time. We must be clothed in a mourning habit

and affect a morose air, in short nothing is spared to render us

dismal and terrifying. It is yet worse, in other religious

professions. A dying roman-catholic is surrounded by objects the most

terrifying, and is pestered with ceremonies that in a manner bury him

alive. By the pains they take to keep the devils from him, he imagines

he sees his chamber full of them; he dies a hundred times with fear

before he expires, and it is in this state of horror the church

delights to plunge the dying sinner, in order to make the greater

advantage of his purse.

Thank God, said Eloisa, that we were not brought up in those venal

religions, which murder people to inherit their wealth, and who,

selling heaven to the rich, would extend even to the other world that

unjust inequality which prevails in this. I do not at all doubt that

such mournful ideas encourage infidelity, and create a natural

aversion for that species of worship, which adopts them. I hope,

continued she, looking steadfastly at me, that he who may educate our

children will adopt very different maxims: and that he will not

represent religion to them as a mournful exercise, by continually

setting before them the prospect of death. If they learn once but to

live well, they will of themselves know how to die.

In the continuation of this discourse, which became less affecting and

more interrupted than I shall tell you, I fully comprehended the

maxims of Eloisa, and the conduct at which I had been surprized. It

appeared that, perceiving her situation quite desperate, she contrived

only to remove that useless and mournful appearance which the fear of

most persons when dying makes them put on. This she did either to

divert our affliction, or to banish from her own view a spectacle so

moving, and at the same time unnecessary. Death, said she, is of

itself sufficiently painful! why must it be rendered hideous? the care

which others throw away in endeavouring to prolong their lives, I will

employ to enjoy mine to the last moment. Shall I make an hospital of

my apartment, a scene of disgust and trouble, when my last care will

be to assemble in it all those who are most dear to me? If I suffer

the air to stagnate, I must banish my children or expose their health

to danger. If I put on a frightful dress and appearance myself, I

shall be known no longer; I shall be no longer the same person you

will all remember to have loved, and will be able to bear me no

more. I shall, even alive, have the frightful spectacle of horror

before me, which I shall be to my friends when I am dead. Instead of

this, I have discovered the art to extend my life without prolonging

it. I exist, I love, am loved, and live till the last breath forsakes

me. The moment of death is nothing: the natural evil is a trifle; and

I have overcome all those of opinion.

This and a good deal of similar discourse passed between the patient,

the minister, sometimes the doctor, Fanny, and me. Mrs. Orbe was

present all the while but never joined in the conversation. Attentive

to the wants of her friend, she was very assiduous to serve her, when

she wanted any assistance; the rest of the time she remained

immoveable and almost inanimate; she kept looking at her without

speaking, and without understanding any thing of what was said.

As to myself; fearing that Eloisa would talk too much for her

strength, I took the opportunity of the minister and physician’s

talking to each other aside, to tell her, in her ear, that she talked

a great deal for a sick person, and reasoned very profoundly for one

who conceived herself incapable of reasoning. Yes, replied she, very

low, I talk too much for a person that is sick, but not for one that

is dying; I shall very soon have nothing more to say. With respect to

argument, I reason no more now; I have done with it. I have often

reflected on my last illness; I am now to profit by my reflection. I

am no longer capable of reflecting nor resolving; I am now only able

to talk of what I have before thought of, and to practice what I have

formerly resolved.

The remainder of the day passed away in nearly the same tranquillity,

and almost in the same manner as if no sick person was in the house.

Eloisa, just as in full health, calm and resigned, talked with the

same good sense and the same spirit; putting on, now and then, an air

of serenity approaching even to sprightliness. In short, I continued

to observe a certain appearance of joy in her eyes, which increased my

uneasiness, and concerning which I was determined to come to an

explanation.

I delayed it no longer than the same evening: when, seeing I had an

inclination to be left alone with her, she told me I had prevented

her, for that she had something to say to me. It is very well, replied

I, but as I intimated my intention first, give me leave first to

explain myself.

Then sitting down by her and looking at her attentively, my Eloisa,

said I, my dear Eloisa, you have wounded my very soul. Yes, continued

I, seeing her look upon me with some surprise, I have penetrated your

sentiments; you are glad to die, you rejoice to leave me. Reflect on

my behaviour to you since we have lived together: have I ever deserved

on your part so cruel a desire? at that instant she clasped both my

hands in hers, and with a voice that thrilled my soul, who? I! said

she, I glad to leave you! Is it thus you penetrate my sentiments? Have

you so soon forgot our conversation of yesterday? at least,

interrupted I, you die content----I have seen----I see it. Hold, said

she, it is indeed true, I die content; but it is content to die, as I

have lived, worthy the name of your wife. Ask of me no more, for I can

tell you no more: but here, continued she, taking a folded paper from

under her pillow, here is what will unfold to you the mystery. This

paper was a letter which I saw was directed to you. I give it to you

open, added she, giving it into my hands, that after having read it

you will determine within yourself, either to send or suppress it,

according as you think best. I desire, however, you will not read it

till I am no more; and I am certain you will grant that request.

This letter, my dear St. Preux, you will find inclosed. She who wrote

it I well know is dead; but I can hardly bring myself to believe that

she no longer exists.

She questioned me afterwards, expressing great uneasiness, about her

father. Is it possible, said she, that he should know his daughter to

be in danger and she not hear from him! has any misfortune happened to

him? or has he ceased to love me? can it be that my father, so tender

a father, should thus abandon his child? that he should let me die

without seeing him; without receiving his last blessing; without

embracing him in my last moments. Good God! how bitterly will he

reproach himself, when he comes to find that he will see me no more!

----this reflection so extremely afflicted her, that I judged she

would be less affected to know her father was ill than to suspect

his indifference. I therefore determined to acquaint her with the

truth, and in fact found her more easy than under her first

suspicions. The thoughts of never seeing him again, however, much

affected her. Alas! said she, what will become of him when I am

gone? shall he live to survive his whole family! what a life of

solitude will his be? It is impossible he should long survive! at

this moment nature resumed its empire, and the horrors of

approaching death were extremely perceptible. She sighed, clasped

her hands, lifted up her eyes to heaven; and, I saw plainly,

endeavoured to pray, with all that difficulty which she before

observed, always attended the prayers of the sick.

When it was over, she turned to me, and, complaining that she felt

herself very weak; told me, she foresaw this would be the last time we

should have an opportunity of conversing together. I conjure you,

therefore, continued she, by our sacred union, in the name of those

dear infants the pledges of our love, harbour no longer such unjust

suspicions of your wife. Can I rejoice to leave you? you, the business

of whose life it has been to instruct and make me happy! you, who, of

all the men in the world, were the most capable to make me so; you,

with whom only perhaps I could have lived within the bounds of

discretion and virtue! no! believe me, if I could set any value upon

life, it would be that I might spend it with you.----These words,

pronounced with great tenderness, affected me to that degree, that as

I pressed her hands frequently with my lips I found them wet with my

tears. I never before thought my eyes made for weeping. These tears

were the first I ever shed since my birth, and shall be the last till

the hour of my death. After having wept the last for Eloisa, there is

nothing left on earth that can draw from me a tear.

This was a day of great fatigue for poor Eloisa. Her preparation of

Mrs. Orbe in the preceding night, her interview with the children in

the morning, that with the minister in the afternoon, together with

the above conversation with me in the evening had quite exhausted her.

She betook herself to rest, and slept better that night than on the

preceding, whether on account of her lassitude, or that in fact her

fever and paroxysms were less violent.

Early the next morning, word was brought me that a stranger, very

indifferently dressed, desired very earnestly to speak particularly to

Eloisa: and though he was informed of her situation, he still

continued his importunity, saying, his business related to an act of

great charity, that he knew Mrs. Wolmar very well, and that while she

had life remaining, she would take pleasure in exerting her

benevolence. As Eloisa had established it as an inviolable rule that

no person, particularly such as appeared to be in distress, should be

turned away, the servants brought me word of the man and his request:

on which I ordered him in. His appearance was mean to the greatest

degree, being clothed almost in rags, and having in his air and manner

all the symptoms of indigence. I did not observe, however, any thing

further either in his looks or discourse to make me suspicious of him;

though he still persisted in his resolution of telling his business to

none but Eloisa. I told him that if it related to any remedy he might

be possessed of, to save her life, I would give him all the recompense

he might expect from her, without troubling her in her present

extremity. No, sir, replied he, poor as I am, I desire not your money.

I demand only what belongs to me, what I esteem beyond all the

treasures on earth, what I have lost by my own folly, and what Mrs.

Wolmar alone, to whom I owe it, can a second time restore.