This discourse, though unintelligible, determined me, however, what to

do. A designing knave might indeed have said as much, but he could

never have said it in the same manner. He required that none of the

servants should be present, a precaution which seemed mysterious and

strange; I indulged him, and introduced him to Eloisa. He had said

that he was known to Mrs. Orbe; he passed by her, however, without her

taking notice of him, at which I was a little surprized. Eloisa

recollected him immediately. Their meeting was extremely affecting.

Clara, hearing a noise, came forward, and soon remembered her old

acquaintance, nor without some tokens of joy: but these were soon

checked by her affliction. One sentiment only engrossed her attention,

and her heart was insensible to every thing else.

It is needless, I imagine, to tell you who this person was; a thousand

ideas will rise up in your memory and suggest it. But whilst Eloisa

was comforting him, however, she was seized with a violent stoppage of

her breath, and became so ill that we thought she was going to

expire. To prevent any further surprise or distraction, at a time when

her relief only was to be thought on, I put the man into the closet,

and bid him lock himself in. Fanny was then called up, and after some

time Eloisa recovered from her fit; when, looking round and seeing us

all in a consternation about her, she said, never mind, children, this

is only an essay; it is nothing like so painful as one would think.

All was soon tranquil again; but the alarm was so great that I quite

forgot the man in the closet, till Eloisa whispered me to know what

was become of him. This was not, however, till dinner was served up

and we were all sat down to table. I would have gone into the closet

to speak to him, but he had locked the door on the inside as I had

directed him; I was obliged, therefore, to have patience till after

dinner.

During our repast, du Boffon, who dined with us, speaking of a young

widow who was going to marry again, made some reflections on the

misfortunes of widows in general; to which, I replied, the fortune of

those was still harder who were widows while their husbands were

living. That, indeed, sir, answered Fanny, who saw this discourse was

directed to her, is too true, especially if such husbands are beloved.

The conversation then turned upon hers; and, as she always spoke of

him very affectionately, it was natural for her to do so now, at a

time when the loss of her benefactress threatened to make that of her

husband still more severe. This indeed she did in the most affecting

terms, commending the natural goodness of his disposition, lamenting

the bad examples by which he had been reduced, and so sincerely

regretting his loss that, being sufficiently disposed before to

sorrow, she burst out into a flood of tears. At this instant the

closet door flew open, and the poor man, rushing out, threw himself at

her feet, embraced her knees and mingled his tears with hers. She was

holding a glass in her hand, which immediately fell to the ground;

while the poor creature was so affected with joy and surprise that she

had fallen into a fit, had not proper care been instantly taken to

prevent it.

What followed is easily imagined. It was known in a moment over the

whole house that Claud Anet was come. The husband of our good Fanny!

what a festival! he was hardly got out of the chamber before he was

stripped of his tatters and dressed in a decent manner. Had each of

the servants had but two shirts a piece, Anet would soon have had as

many as them all. They had indeed so far prevented me that, when I

went out with a design to get him equipped, I was obliged to make use

of my authority to make them take back the cloaths they had furnished

him.

In the mean time Fanny would not leave her mistress. In order,

however, to give her an opportunity of an hour or two’s conversation

with her husband, we pretended the children wanted to take an airing,

and sent them both to take care of them.

This scene did not disturb Eloisa so much as the preceding ones. There

was nothing in it disagreeable, and it rather did her good than harm.

Clara and I passed the afternoon with her by ourselves, and had two

hours of calm uninterrupted conversation, which she rendered the most

agreeable and interesting of any we had ever experienced in our lives.

She opened it with some observations on the affecting scene we had

just beheld, and which recalled strongly to her mind the times of her

early youth. Then, following the order of events, she made a short

recapitulation of the incidents of her life, with a view to shew that,

taking it for all in all, she had been fortunate and happy; that she

had risen, gradually to the highest pinnacle of earthly happiness, and

that the accident, which now cut her off in the middle of her days,

seemed in all appearance, according to the natural course of things,

to mark the point of separation between the good and evil of mortal

life.

She expressed her gratitude to heaven in that it had been pleased to

give her a susceptible and benevolent heart, a sound understanding and

an agreeable person; in that it had been pleased to give her birth in

a land of liberty, and not in a country of slaves; that she came of an

honourable family and not of an ignoble or criminal race; that she was

born to a moderate fortune, and not either to the superfluous riches

of the great, which corrupt the mind, or to the indigence of the poor,

which debases it. She felicitated herself that she was born of

parents, both of them good and virtuous, replete with justice and

honour, and who, tempering the faults of each other, had formed her

judgment on theirs, without subjecting her to their foibles or

prejudices. She boasted the advantages, she had enjoyed, of being

educated in a rational and holy religion; which, so far from debasing,

elevates and ennobles mankind; which, neither favouring impiety nor

fanaticism, permits its professors to make use, at the same time, both

of faith and reason, to be at once both devout and humane.

Then, pressing the hand of Clara, which she constantly held in hers,

and looking at her with the most affecting tenderness, all these

blessings, said she, I have enjoyed in common with others; but this

one----this, heaven reserved for me alone: I am a woman, and yet have

known a true friend. Heaven gave us birth at the same time; it gave us

a similarity of inclinations which has subsisted to this hour: it

formed our hearts one for the other; it united us in the cradle; I

have been blest with her friendship during my life, and her kind hand

will close my eyes in death. Find another example like this in the

world, and I have no longer any thing to boast. What prudent advice

hath she not given me? from what perils hath she not saved me? under

what afflictions hath she not comforted me? what should I indeed have

been without her? what should I not have been, had I listened more

attentively to her counsel?

Clara, instead of replying, leaned her head on the breast of her

friend, and would have stifled her sighs by her tears: but it was

impossible. Eloisa embraced her with the most cordial affection, and

for a long time a scene of tearless silence succeeded.

When they recovered themselves, Eloisa continued her discourse. These

blessings, said she, were mixed, with their inconveniences; such is

the lot of humanity! My heart was made for love; difficult as to

personal merit, but indifferent to that of opinion, it was morally

impossible that my father’s prejudices should ever agree with my

inclinations. My heart required a lover of its own peculiar choice.

Such a one offered himself, I made choice of him, or rather heaven so

directed my choice, that though a slave to passion, I should not be

abandoned to the horrors of my guilt, and that the love of virtue

should still keep possession of my heart, even after I was criminal.

He made use of the specious insinuating language of virtue, by which a

thousand base men daily seduce our sex; but perhaps he only of all

mankind, was sincere. Did I then know his heart? ah! no. I then knew

no more of him than his professions, and yet I was seduced. I did that

through despair which others have done through wantonness: I even

threw myself, as my father reproached me, into his arms; and yet he

loved and respected me: by that respect alone I began to know him

truly. Every man capable of such behaviour must have a noble soul.

Then, I might safely have trusted him; but I had done that before, and

afterwards ventured to trust in my own strength, and so was deceived.

She then went on, to lavish encomiums on the merit of this unhappy

lover; I will not say she did him more than justice, but the pleasure

she took in it was very obvious. She even praised him at her own

expense, and by endeavouring to be just to him, was unjust to herself.

She went even so far as to maintain that he held adultery in greater

horror than she did; forgetting that he himself had disproved any such

suggestion.

All the other incidents of her life were related in the same spirit.

The behaviour of Lord B----, her husband, her children, your return,

our friendship, every thing was set in the most favourable light. She

recapitulated even her misfortunes with pleasure, as accidents which

had prevented greater misfortunes. She lost her mother at a time when

that loss was peculiarly felt; but if heaven had been pleased to spare

her, a disturbance, fatal to the peace of her family might have been

the consequence. The assistance of her mother, feeble as it was, would

have been sufficient to strengthen her resolution to resist the will

of her father, whence family discord and scandal would have arisen,

perhaps some disaster or dishonour, and perhaps still worse if her

brother had lived. She had married a man, against her own inclination,

whom she did not love; and yet she maintained, that she could not have

been so happy with any other man, not even with the object of her

passion. The death of Mr. Orbe had deprived her of a friend in the

husband, but had restored to her a more amiable one in the wife. She

even went so far as to include her uneasiness, her pains, in the

number of blessings, as they had served to prevent her heart from

being hardened against the sufferings of others. It is unknown, said

she, the delight of bemoaning our own misfortunes or those of others.

A susceptible mind finds a contentment in itself, independent of

fortune. How deeply have I not sighed! how bitterly have I not wept!

and yet, were I to pass my life again, the evil I have committed would

be all that I would wish retrenched; that which I have suffered would

be again agreeable. These, St. Preux, were her own words; when you

have read her letter, they will perhaps seem more intelligible.

Thus, continued she, you see to what felicity I was arrived. I enjoyed

a considerable share of happiness, and had still more in view. The

increasing prosperity of my family, the virtuous education of my

children, all that I held dear in the world assembled, or ready to be

assembled around me. The time present and the future equally

flattering, enjoyment and hope united to compleat my happiness. Thus

raised to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, I could not but descend; as

it came before it was expected, it would have taken its flight while I

was delighted in the thoughts of its duration. What could Providence

have done to have sustained me on the summit of felicity? a permanent

situation is not the lot of mankind? no, when we have acquired every

thing, we must lose something, though it were from no other cause than

that the pleasure of enjoyment diminishes by possession. My father is

already in the decline of life; my children of an age when life is

very uncertain: how many losses might not hereafter assist me, without

my having it in my power to repair, or console myself under, one! A

mother’s affection constantly increases, whilst the tenderness of her

offspring diminishes in proportion as they are absent, or reside at a

distance from her. Mine, as they grow up, would be taken from me: they

would live in the great world, and might neglect me. You intend to

send one of them to Russia; how many tears would not his departure and

absence cost me! all by degrees would be detached from me, and I

should have nothing to supply their loss. How often should I find

myself not in the situation in which I now am going to leave you! and

after all, I must still die. Die perhaps the last of you all, alone

and forsaken! the longer one lives, the more desirous we are of

living, even when our enjoyments are at an end: hence I might survive

till life became a burthen, and yet should fear to die; ’tis the

ordinary consequence of old age. Instead of that, my last moments are

now agreeable, and I have strength to resign myself to death, if death

it may be called to leave behind us what we love. No, my friends, my

children, think not that I shall leave you; I will remain with you; in

leaving you thus united, my heart, my soul, will still reside among

you. You will see me continually among you; you will perceive me

perpetually near you----the time will also come when we shall be

united again; nor shall the virtuous Wolmar himself escape me. My

return to God speaks peace to my soul, and sweetens the bitter moment

that approaches; it promises me for you also the same felicity. I have

been happy, I am still happy, and am going to be so for ever; my

happiness is determined, beyond the power of fortune, to all eternity.

Just then the minister entered. Eloisa was truly the object of his

respect and esteem; nobody knowing better than he the liveliness and

sincerity of her belief. He was but too much affected with the

conversation he had held with her the day before, and above all with

the serenity and fortitude he had observed in her. He had often seen

persons die with ostentation, but never with such calmness. Perhaps

also to the interest he took in her situation was added a little

curiosity to see whether such her uncommon serenity would last to the

end. Eloisa had no occasion to change the subject of discourse to

render it more agreeable to the character of our visitor. As her

conversation when in health was never on frivolous topics, so now she

continued, on her sickbed, to talk over with the same tranquillity,

such subjects as she thought most interesting to herself and her

friends; speaking indifferently on matters by no means indifferent in

themselves.

Thus, following the chain of her ideas relative to her notions of

remaining with her friends, the discourse turned on the situation of

the soul separated from the body: when she took occasion to admire the

simplicity of such persons, who promised on their deathbeds to come

back to their friends, and bring them news of the other world. This,

continued she, is just as reasonable, as the stories of ghosts and

apparitions, that are said to commit a thousand disorders, and torment

credulous good women; as if departed spirits had lungs to scold and

hands to fight with. [105] How is it possible for a pure spirit to act

upon a soul inclosed in a body, and which, by virtue of its union with

such body can perceive nothing but by means of the corporeal organs?

this is not to be conceived. I must confess, however, I see nothing

absurd in supposing that the soul when delivered from the body, should

return, wander about, or perhaps reside near the persons of such as

were dear to it in life: not indeed to inform them of its existence;

it has no means of communicating such information; neither can it act

on us, or perceive what we act, for want of the organs of sense

necessary to that end; but methinks it might become acquainted with

our thoughts and perceptions, by an immediate communication similar to

that by which the Deity is privy to all our thoughts, and by which we

reciprocally read the thoughts of each other, in coming face to face:

[106] for, added she, turning to the minister, of what use can the

senses be when there is nothing for them to do? the supreme Being is

neither seen nor understood; he only makes himself felt, he speaks

neither to the eyes nor the ears, but only to the heart.

I understood, by the answer of the pastor and from some signs which

passed between them, that the resurrection of the body had been one of

the points on which they had formerly disputed. I perceived also that

I now began to give more attention to the articles of Eloisa’s

religion, where her faith seemed to approach the bounds of reason.

She seemed to take so much pleasure in these notions that, had she not

been predetermined to abide by her former opinions, it had been

cruelty to endeavour to invalidate one that seemed so agreeable to her

in her present condition. What an additional pleasure, said she, have

I not an hundred times taken, in doing a good action, in the

imagination that my good mother was present, and that she knew the

heart and approved the intentions of her daughter! there is something

so comfortable in the thoughts of living under the eyes of those who

were dear to us, that with respect to ourselves, they can hardly be

said to be deceased. You may judge whether Clara’s hand was not

frequently pressed during this discourse.

The minister had replied hitherto with a good deal of complacency and

moderation; he took care, however, not to forget his profession for a

moment, but opposed her sentiments on the business of another life. He

told her the immensity, glory and other attributes of God, would be

the only objects which the souls of the blessed would be employed in

contemplating: that such sublime contemplation, would efface every

other idea, that we should see nothing, that we should remember

nothing, even in heaven, but that after so ravishing a prospect, every

thing earthly would be lost in oblivion.

That may well be, returned Eloisa; there is such an immense distance

between the lowness of our thoughts and the divine essence, that we

cannot judge what effect it may have on us, when we are in a situation

to contemplate its beauty. But, as I have hitherto been able to reason

only from my ideas, I must confess that I leave some persons so dear

to me, that it would grieve me much to think I should never remember

them more. One part of my happiness, say I, will consist in the

testimony of a good conscience; I shall certainly remember then how I

have acted on earth: if I remember this, I cannot forget those persons

who were dear to me; who must be still so: to see [107] them no more

then will be a pain to me, and pain enters not into the mansions of

the blest. But if, after all, I am mistaken, says she, smiling, a

mistake for a day or two will be soon at an end. I shall know, sir, in

a short time, more on this subject than even yourself. In the mean

time, this I am well assured of, that so long as I remember that I

have lived on earth, so long shall I esteem those I loved there, among

whom my worthy pastor will not have the lowest place.

In this manner passed the conversation all that day, during which

Eloisa appeared to have more ease, more hope and assurance than ever,

seeming, in the opinion of the minister, to enjoy a foretaste of that

happiness she was going to partake among the blessed. Never did she

appear more tender, more amiable, in a word, more herself than at this

time; always sensible, sentimental, possessing the fortitude of the

philosopher and the mildness of a Christian. Nothing of affectation,

nothing assuming or sententious escaped her; her expression always

dictated by her sentiments with the greatest simplicity of heart. If

sometimes she stifled the complaints which her sufferings might have

drawn from her, it was not through affectation of a stoical

intrepidity; but to prevent those who were about her from being

afflicted; and when the pangs of approaching death triumphed over her

strength, she strove not to hide her sufferings, but permitted us to

comfort her; and when she recovered from them a little, comforted us

in her turn. In the intervals of her pain, she was chearful, but her

chearfulness was extremely affecting; a smile sitting frequently on

the lip while the eye ran over with tears. To what purpose is that

terror which permits us not to enjoy what we are going speedily to

lose? Eloisa was even more pleasing, more amiable than when in health;

and the last day of her life was the most glorious of all.

Towards the evening she had another fit which, though not so severe

as that in the morning, would not permit us to leave the children long

with her. She, remarked, however, that Harriot looked changed, and

though we accounted for it by saying she wept much and eat little, she

said no, her illness was in the blood.

Finding herself better, she would have us sup in her own chamber; the

doctor being still with her. Fanny also, whom we always used to send

for when we chose she should dine or sup at our table, came up unsent

for; which Eloisa perceiving, she smiled and said, yes, child, come,

you shall sup with me tonight; you may have your husband longer than

you will have your mistress. Then turning to me, she said, I shall

have no need to recommend Claud Anet to your protection. No, replied

I, whosoever you have honoured with your benevolence needs no other

recommendation to me.

Eloisa, finding she could bear the light, had the table brought near

the bed, and what is hardly to be conceived of one in her situation,

she had an appetite. The physician who saw no danger in gratifying

her, offered her a bit of chicken; which she refused, but desired a

bit of fish, which she eat with a little bread, and said it was very

good. While she was eating, you should have seen the looks of Mrs.

Orbe; you should have seen, I say, for it is impossible to describe

them. What she eat was so far from doing her harm, that she seemed the

better for it during the remainder of the repast. She was even in such

good humour as to take upon her to complain that we had been so long

without wine. Bring, says she, a bottle of Spanish wine for these

gentlemen. By the looks of the physician, she saw he expected to taste

some genuine Spanish wine, and casting her eyes at Clara, smiled at

the conceit. In the mean time Clara, without giving attention to that

circumstance, looked with extreme concern, sometimes at Eloisa, and

then on Fanny, of whom her eyes seemed to say, or ask something, which

I could not understand.

The wine did not come so soon as was expected; the valet de chambre,

who was entrusted with the key of the cellar, having taken it away

through mistake. On enquiry, indeed, it was found that the provision

intended for one day had lasted five, and that the key was gone

without any body’s perceiving the want of it, notwithstanding the

family had sat up several nights. The physician was amazed, and for my

part, at a loss whether I should attribute this forgetfulness to the

concern or the sobriety of the servants, I was ashamed to make use of

ordinary precautions with such domestics, and therefore ordered the

door of the cellar to be broke open, and that for the future every one

might drink at their discretion.

At length a bottle was brought us, and the wine proved excellent; when

the patient having a mind to taste it, desired some mixed with water;

on which the doctor gave her a glass, and ordered her to drink it

unmixed. Clara and Fanny now cast their eyes more frequently at each

other, but with looks timid and constrained, as if they were fearful

of saying too much.

Her fasting, weakness, and ordinary way of living made the wine have a

great effect on Eloisa. She perceived it, and said she was

intoxicated. After having deferred it so long, said she, it was hardly

worth while to begin to make me tipsy now, for a drunken woman is a

most odious sight. In fact she began to prattle sensibly however as

usual, but with more vivacity than before. It was astonishing,

nevertheless, that her colour was not heighten’d: her eyes sparkled

only with a fire moderated by the languor of her illness; and

excepting her paleness she looked to be in full health. Clara’s

emotion became now extremely visible. She cast a timid look

alternately on Eloisa, on me, on Fanny, and above all on the

physician; these were all expressive of so many interrogatories which

she was desirous but fearful to make. One would have thought every

moment that she was going to speak, but that the fear of a

disagreeable reply prevented her: indeed her disquietude appeared at

length so great that it seemed oppressive.

Fanny, encouraged by all these signs and willing to relieve her,

attempted to speak, but with a trembling voice, faltering out that her

mistress seemed to have been in less pain to ay----that her last

convulsion was not so strong as the preceding----that the evening

seemed----and there she stopped. Clara, who trembled like a leaf while

Fanny was speaking, now fixed her eyes on the physician, listening

with all her attention and hardly venturing to breathe lest she should

not perfectly understand what he was going to say.

A man must have been stupid not to have guessed the meaning of all

this. Du Boffon got up, felt the pulse of the patient, and said, here

is neither intoxication nor fever; the pulse promises well. Clara rose

up in a moment, and, addressing the doctor with the utmost impatience,

would have interrogated him more particularly, but her speech failed

her. How sir! said she----the pulse! the fever! she could say no more;

but her eyes sparkled with impatience, and not a muscle in her face

but indicated the most disquieting curiosity.

The doctor, however, made no answer, but took up the patient’s hand

again, examined her eyes and her tongue, and having stood silent a

while, said, I understand you, madam; but it is impossible for me to

say any thing positively at present, only this, that if the patient is

in the same situation at this hour tomorrow morning I will answer for

her life. The words had scarce dropt from his lips before Clara,

rushing forward quick as lightening, overturned two chairs and almost

the table to get at him, when she clung round his neck and kissed him

a hundred times, sobbing and bathing his face with her tears. With the

same impetuosity she took a ring of value from her finger, and put it

forcibly on his, crying out, as well as she could, quite out of

breath, O sir! if you do but restore her to us, it is not one life

only you will be so happy as to save.

Eloisa saw and heard this, which greatly affected her; looking on her

friend, therefore, she thus broke out in a sorrowful and moving tone,

cruel Clara! how you make me regret the loss of life! are you resolved

to make me die in despair? must you be a second time prepared? these

few words were like a clap of thunder; they immediately extinguished

her transports, but could not quite stifle her rekindled hopes.

The doctor’s reply to Mrs. Orbe was immediately known throughout the

house, and the honest domestics already conceited their mistress half

restored. They unanimously resolved, therefore, to make the doctor a

present, on her recovery, to which each contributed three months

wages, and the money was immediately put into the hands of Fanny; some

borrowing of the others what they wanted to make up their quota of the

sum. This agreement was made with so much eagerness and haste, that

Eloisa heard in her bed the noise of their acclamations. Think, my

friend, what an effect this must have had on the heart of a woman, who

felt herself dying. She made a sign to me to come near, and whispered

in my ear; see how they make me drink to the very bottom that bitter

yet sweet cup of sensibility!

When it was time to retire, Mrs. Orbe, who still partook of her

cousin’s bed, called her women, to sit up that night to relieve Fanny:

the latter however objected to the proposal, and seemingly with

greater earnestness than she would have done, had not her husband been

come. Mrs. Orbe persisted notwithstanding in her design, and both of

them passed the night together in the closet. I sat up in the next

chamber, but the hopes which the domestics entertained had so animated

their zeal, that neither persuasions nor threats could prevail on one

of them to go to bed that night. Thus the whole house sat up all night

under so much impatience, that there was not one of the family who

would not have gladly given a whole year of his life to have had it

nine o’clock in the morning.

I frequently heard them walking in her chamber, during the night,

which did not disturb me; but toward the morning when things seem’d

more quiet and still, I was alarmed at a low, indistinct noise that

seemed to come from Eloisa’s room. I listened and thought I could now

distinguish the groans of a person in extremity. I ran into the room,

threw open the curtain, and there----O St. Preux! there I saw them

both, those amiable friends, motionless, locked in each other’s

embrace, the one fainted away and the other expiring. I cried out, and

hastened to prevent or receive her last sigh; but it was too late;

Eloisa was no more.

I can give you no account of what passed for some hours afterwards;

being ignorant of what befell myself during that time. As soon as I

was a little recovered from my first surprise, I enquired after Mrs.

Orbe; and learnt that the servants were obliged to carry her into her

own chamber, where at last they were forced to confine her to prevent

her returning into that of Eloisa; which she had several times done,

throwing herself on the body, embracing, chasing, and kissing it in a

kind of phrenzy, and exclaiming aloud in a thousand passionate

expressions of fruitless despair.

On entering her apartment, I found her absolutely frantic, neither

seeing nor minding any thing, knowing nobody, but running about the

room, and wringing her hands, sometimes muttering in a hollow voice

some extravagant words, and at others sending forth such terrible

shrieks as to make one shudder with horror. On the feet of the bed sat

her woman, frightened out of her wits, not daring to breathe or stir,

but seeking to hide herself and trembling every limb. In fact the

convulsions, which at this time agitated the unhappy Clara, had

something in them most terrifying. I made a sign that her woman should

retire; fearing lest a single word of consolation, untimely offered,

might have put her into an actual fury.

I did not attempt therefore to speak to her; as she could neither have

listened to or understood me; but observing after some time that her

strength was quite exhausted with fatigue, I placed her on a settee;

then sitting down by her and holding her hands, I ordered the children

to be brought in and called them round her. Unhappily the first she

took notice of was him that was the innocent cause of her friend’s

death. The sight of him I could see made her tremble; her countenance

changed, she turned away her looks from him in a kind of horror, and

struggled to get her hands loose to push him from her. I called him

then to me. Unfortunate boy, said I, for having been too dear to the

one, you are become hateful to the other: it is plain their hearts

were not in every thing alike. She was extremely angry at what I said,

and retorted it severely; it had nevertheless its effect in the

impression it made on her. For she immediately took the child up in

her arms, and attempted to kiss him, but could not, and set him down

again immediately. She did not even look upon him with the same

pleasure as on the other, and I am very glad it is not this boy which

is intended for her daughter.

Ye susceptible minds! what would you have done in my situation? ye

would have acted like Mrs. Orbe. After having taken care of the

children, and of Clara, and given the necessary orders about the

funeral, it was necessary for me to take my horse and be the sorrowful

messenger of the heavy tidings to an unhappy father. I found him still

in pain from his hurt, as well as greatly uneasy and troubled about

the accident which had befallen his daughter. I left him overwhelmed

with sorrow: with the sorrow of the aged, which breaks not out into

external appearances, which excites neither transport nor exclamation,

but preys inwardly and fatally on the heart. That he will never

overcome his grief I am certain, and I can plainly foresee the last

stroke that is wanting to compleat the misfortune of his friend. The

next day I made all possible haste, in order to be at home early, and

pay the last honours to the worthiest of women: but all was not yet

over. She must be made to revive, to afflict me with the loss of her a

second time.

As I drew near my house, I saw one of my people come running out to

meet me, who cried out from as far as he could be heard; sir, sir,

make haste, make haste, my mistress is not dead. I could not

comprehend what he meant; but made all the haste I could, and found

the courtyard full of people, crying for joy and calling out aloud for

blessings on Mrs. Wolmar. I asked the reason of all this; every one

was transported with joy, but no body could give me a reasonable

answer; for as to my own people their heads were absolutely turned. I

made the best of my way therefore to Eloisa’s apartment, where I found

more than twenty persons on their knees round the bed, with their eyes

attentively fixed on the corpse, which, to my great surprise, I saw

dressed out and lying on the bed: my heart fluttered, and I examined

into her situation. But alas! she was dead and cold! This moment of

false hope, so soon and so cruelly extinguished, was the most

afflicting moment of my whole life. I am not apt to be choleric, but I

found myself on this occasion extremely angry, and resolved to come at

the bottom of this extravagant scene. But all was so disguised, so

altered, so changed; that I had the greatest difficulty in the world

to come at the truth. At length, however, I unravelled the mystery,

and thus it was. My father-in-law, being alarmed at the accident he

had heard, and thinking he could spare his valet de chambre, had sent

him over before my arrival to learn the situation of his daughter.

This old servant, being fatigued with riding on horseback, had taken a

boat, and, crossing the lake in the night, arrived at Clarens the very

morning of the day in which I returned. On his arrival he saw the

universal consternation the house was in; and, learning the cause,

went sobbing up to Eloisa’s apartment; where, throwing himself on his

knees by the bedside, he wept and contemplated the features of his

departed mistress. Then giving vent to his sorrows, he cried out, ah!

my good mistress! ah! why did it not please God to take me instead of

you! me, that am old, that have no connections, that can be of no more

service on the face of the earth! but to take you, in the flower of

youth, the pride of your family, the blessing of your house, the hope

of the unfortunate, alas! was I present at your birth, thus to behold

you dead!----

In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from

the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept

his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having

once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned

her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon

this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house,

crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he

was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call

every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who

before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly

cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the

noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the

marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed

what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by

countenancing the general credulity. So that, in a short time, the

deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head,

but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty

witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never

happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of

her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they

pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her

face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish

apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended

at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got

every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how

egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving

to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some

miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her

wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel.

After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open,

they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the

multitude.

I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted

with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and

that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of

the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I

should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had

buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by

the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After

six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the

weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved

its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of

alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued

stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the

dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she

might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.

She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after,

however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue

embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108]

when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over

the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice,

“Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up

this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on

this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect

on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was

repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed

did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the

deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the

greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire,

without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face.

[109]

Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their

own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is

my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with

relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet

support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but

you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how

much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her

in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends

her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would

have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous

affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing

she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged

therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be

offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a

greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.

You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her

behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take

care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which

her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions,

abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt

her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room.

The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the

nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their

presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most

dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when

excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds,

by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.

On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw

covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the

first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined

I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table,

at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then

permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing

herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was

afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of

soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish

air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I

answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove

to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled,

her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to

her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I

said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day.

The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the

best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to

soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her

daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in

heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner,

having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used

to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed,

as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given

her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers

being laid as the day before.

Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me

a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed

sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the

expedient.

Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part

extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting

shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her

mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged

by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the

soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the

gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly

like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after,

however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate,

replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She

then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her

with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater

impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her

therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour

after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had

she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I

resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect

her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I

thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little

longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.

This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since

the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his

apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass

an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice

of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her

sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her

zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet

sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait

for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot

but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed

first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and

useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her

father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all

desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful.

In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of

our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other

man in the world.

Letter CLXII. From Eloisa.

_This letter was inclosed in the preceding._

Our projects are at an end. Circumstances, my good friend, are

changed: let us bear it without murmuring; it is the will of

consummate wisdom. We pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being

reunited; such a reunion was not good for us. The goodness of

Providence has prevented it, without doubt to prevent our misery.

Long have I indulged myself in the salutary delusion, that my passion

was extinguished; the delusion is now vanished, when it can be no

longer useful. You imagined me cured of my love; I thought so too. Let

us thank heaven that the deception hath lasted as long as it could be

of service to us. In vain, alas! I endeavoured to stifle that passion

which inspired me with life; it was impossible, it was interwoven with

my heart-strings. It now expands itself, when it is no longer to be

dreaded; it supports me now my strength fails me; it chears my soul

even in death. O my friend! I can now make this confession without

fear or shame; this involuntary sentiment has been of no prejudice to

my virtue, it has never sullied my innocence; I have done my duty in

all things which were in my power. If my heart was yours, it was my

punishment, and not my crime. My virtue is unblemished, and my love

has left behind it no remorse.

I glory in my past life: but who could have answered for my future

years? perhaps were I to live another day I should be culpable! what

then might I not have been during whole years spent in your company?

what dangers have I not run without knowing it? and to how much

greater was I going to be exposed? every trial has indeed been made;

but trials may be too often repeated. Have I not lived long enough to

be happy and virtuous? in taking me hence, heaven deprives me of

nothing which I ought to regret. I go, my friend, at a most favourable

moment; satisfied with you and myself, I depart in peace.

I foresee, I feel your affliction; I know too well you will be left to

mourn; the thoughts of your sorrow cause my greatest uneasiness: but

reflect on the consolation I leave with you. The obligations left you

to discharge on the part of her who was so dear to you, ought to make

it your duty to take care of yourself for her sake. You are left in

charge with her better half. You will lose no more of Eloisa than you

have long been deprived of. Her better part remains with you. Come and

join her family, in the midst of whom Eloisa’s heart will still be

found. Let every one that was dear to her unite to give her a new

being. Your business, your pleasures, your friendship shall be her own

work. The bonds of your union shall give her new life, nor will she

totally expire but with the last of her friends.

Think there remains for you another Eloisa, and forget not what you

owe her. You are both going to lose the half of yourselves; unite

therefore to preserve the other. The only method that remains for you

to survive me, is to supply my place in my family and with my

children. Oh that I could but invent still stronger bonds to unite

those who are so dear to me! but reflect how much you are indebted to

each other, and let that reflection strengthen your mutual attachment.

Your former objections, against entering into such an engagement, will

now become arguments for it. How can either of you ever speak of me

without melting into tenderness? No, Eloisa and Clara shall for the

future be so united together in your thoughts, that it shall not be in

the power of your heart to separate them. Hers will share in every

thing yours has felt for her friend; she will become both the

confident and object of your passion. You will be happy in the

enjoyment of that Eloisa who survives, without being unfaithful to her

you shall have lost; and after so many disappointments and

misfortunes, shall, before the age of life and love is past, burn with

a lawful flame, and possess the happiness of an innocent passion.

Secured by this chaste union, you will be at liberty to employ your

thoughts entirely on the discharge of those duties which I have

recommended; after which you need never be at a loss to account for

the good you have done on earth. You know there exists also a man

worthy of an honour, to which he durst not aspire: you know him to

have been your deliverer, as well as the husband of your friend. Left

alone, without connections in this life, without expectations from

futurity, without joy, without comfort, without hope, he will soon be

the most unfortunate of men. You owe to him the same pains he has

taken with you, and you know the way to render them successful.

Remember the instructions of my former letter. Pass your days with

him. Let no one that loved me forsake him. As he restored your taste

for virtue, so shew him the object and the value of it. Be you truly a

Christian, to engage him to be one too; the success of the attempt is

more probable than perhaps you imagine. He has done his duty, I will

do mine, and you must hereafter do yours. God is just and my

confidence in him will not deceive me.

I have but a word or two more to say, concerning my children. I know

the trouble their education will cost you; but at the same time I know

you will not repine. In the most fatiguing moments of such employment,

reflect that they are the children of Eloisa, and every thing will be

easy. Mr. Wolmar will put into your hands the remarks I have made on

your essay and on the character of my two sons. They are however

unfinished, and I leave them to you, not as rules for your conduct,

but submit them as hints to your judgment. Strive not to make my

children scholars, but benevolent and honest men. Speak to them

sometimes of their mother----you know how dear they were to her----

tell Marcellin, I die willingly as I saved his life. Tell his brother,

it was for him I could have wished to live. Tell their----but I find

myself fatigued; I must put an end to this letter. In leaving my

children with you, I part with you with less regret: for in them I

still continue with you.

Farewell, my dear friend! once more farewell. My life ends, alas! as

it begun. Perhaps I have said too much at a time when the heart

disguises nothing----ah! why should I be afraid to express all I feel?

It is no longer I that speak; I am already in the arms of death.

Before you read this letter, the worms will be preying on the features

of your friend, and will take possession of a heart where your image

will be found no more. But can my soul exist without you? without you,

what happiness can I enjoy? No, we will not part----I go but to expect

you. That virtue, which separated us on earth, will unite us for ever

in the mansions of the blessed. I die in that peaceful hope; too happy

to purchase, at the expense of my life, the privilege of loving you

without a crime, and of telling you so once more.

Letter CLXIII. From Mrs. Orbe.

I am glad to hear that you begin to be so well recovered, as to give

us hopes of seeing you soon here. You must, my friend, endeavour to

get the better of your weakness and try to pass the mountains before

the winter prevents you. The air of this country, will agree with you;

you will see here nothing but sorrow; and perhaps our common

affliction will be the means of soothing yours. Mine stands greatly in

need of your assistance; for I can neither weep, nor speak, nor make

myself understood. Mr. Wolmar indeed, understands me, but he makes me

no answer. The affliction of an unfortunate father also is buried

within himself; nor can any thing be conceived more cruelly

tormenting: he neither hears, sees, nor understands any thing. Age has

no vent for its griefs. My children affect me without knowing how to

be affected themselves. I am solitary in the midst of company; a

mournful silence prevails around me; and in the stupidity of my

affliction, I speak to nobody; having but just life enough in me to

feel the horrors of death. O come, you who partake of my loss, come

and partake of my griefs. Come cherish my heart with your sorrow. This

is the only consolation I can hope for; the only pleasure I can taste.

But before you arrive, and inform me of your intentions relative to a

project which I know has been mentioned to you, it is proper I should

inform you first of mine. I am frank and ingenuous, and therefore will

dissemble nothing. That I have loved you I confess: nay, perhaps I

love you still, and shall always do so: but this I know not, nor

desire to know. I am not ignorant that it is suspected, which I do not

concern myself about. But what I have to say, and what you ought to

observe, is this: that a man who was beloved by Eloisa, and could

resolve to marry another woman, would, in my opinion, be so base and

unworthy a creature, that I should think it a dishonour to call such a

one my friend. And with respect to myself, I protest to you that the

man, whoever he be, that shall presume to talk of love hereafter to

me, shall never have a second opportunity as long as he lives.

Think then only on the employment that awaits you, on the duties

imposed on you, and on her to whom you engaged to discharge them. Her

children are growing up apace, her father is insensibly wasting, her

husband is in continual agitation of mind: in vain he strives to think

her annihilated; his heart rebels against his reason. He speaks of

her, he speaks to her, and sighs. Methinks I see already the repeated

wishes of Eloisa half accomplished, and that you may put a finishing

hand to so great a work. What a motive is here to induce both you and

Lord B---- to repair hither. It is becoming his noble mind that our

misfortunes have not made him change his resolution.

Come then, dear and respectable friends, come and rejoin all that is

left of Eloisa. Let us assemble all that was dear to her: let her

spirit animate us, let her heart unite ours; let us live continually

under her eye. I take a delight in conceiving that her amiable and

susceptible spirit will leave its peaceful mansions to revisit ours;

that it will take a pleasure in seeing its friends imitate her

virtues, in hearing herself honoured by their acknowledgments, in

seeing them kiss her tomb, and sigh at the repetition of her name. No,

she has not yet forsaken these haunts which she used to make so

delightful. They are still full of her. I see her in every object; I

perceive her at every step; every hour of the day I hear her well-

known voice. It was here she lived, here died, and here repose her

ashes----As I go, twice a week, to the church, I cast my eye on the

sad, revered spot----O beauty! is such thy last asylum!----sincerity!

friendship! virtue! pleasure! innocence! all lie buried in her grave

----I feel myself drawn as it were involuntarily to her tomb----I

shudder as I approach----I dread to violate the hallowed earth----I

imagine that I feel it shake and tremble under my feet----that I hear

a plaintive voice call me from the hollow tomb----Clara! [110] where

art thou? Clara! why dost thou not come to thy friend?----alas! her

grave hath yet but half her ashes----it is impatient for the remainder

of its prey----yet a little while, and it shall be satisfied!

Finis.

[Footnote 1: See the 7th Plate.----The cuts are daily expected from

Paris.]

[Footnote 2: See Vol. II. p. 74.]

[Footnote 3: This regards only the modern English romances.]

[Footnote 4: See the letters to M. d’Alembert sur les spectacles.]

[Footnote 5: Preface to Narcisse----Lettre à M. d’Alembert.]

[Footnote 6 It is plain there is a chasm here, and the reader will

find many in the course of this correspondence. Several of the letters

are lost, others are suppressed, and some have been curtailed; but

there appears to be nothing wanting essential to the story.]

[Footnote 7: The Lady seems to have forgot what she said in the

preceding paragraph.]

[Footnote 8: Alluding to a letter which is suppressed.]

[Footnote 9: Unhappy youth! not to perceive, that to suffer himself to

be paid in gratitude, what he refused in money, was infinitely more

criminal. Under the mask of instruction he corrupted her heart;

instead of nourishment he gives her poison, and is thanked by a

deluded mother for the ruin of her child. Nevertheless one may

perceive in him a sincere love for virtue; but it is so soon

dissipated by his passions, that with all his fine preaching, unless

his youth may be admitted as an excuse, he is no better than a wicked

fellow. The two lovers, however, deserve some compassion; the mother

is chiefly in fault.]

[Footnote 10: The sequel will but too well inform the reader, that

this assertion of Eloisa’s was extremely ill grounded.]

[Footnote 11: This sentiment is a very just one. Disorderly passions

_lead_ to bad actions. But pernicious maxims corrupt the understanding,

the very source and spring of good, and cut off the possibility of a

return to virtue.]

[Footnote 12: Titular grants are not very common in the present age,

except those which are bought or are obtained by placemen, the most

honourable appendage to which, that I know of, is the privilege of not

being hanged.]

[Footnote 13: In some countries, agreement in rank and fortune is held

so far preferable to that of nature and of the heart, that an

inequality in the former is judged sufficient to prevent or dissolve

the most happy marriages, without any regard to the honour of the

unfortunate lovers, who are daily made a sacrifice to such odious

prejudices. I heard once a celebrated cause pleaded before the

parliament at Paris, wherein the distinction of rank publicly and

insolently opposed honesty, justice, and the conjugal vow; the

unworthy parent, who gained his cause, disinheriting his son, because

he refused to act the part of a villain. The fair sex are, in that

polite country, subjected in the greatest degree to the tyranny of the

laws. Is it to be wondered at, that they so amply avenge themselves in

the looseness of their manners?]

[Footnote 14: It appears by the sequel that these suspicions fell upon

Lord B----, and that Clara applies them to herself.]

[Footnote 15: Chimerical distinction of rank! It is an English peer

that talks thus. Can there be any reality in all this? Reader, what

think you of it?]

[Footnote 16: This it is to entertain unreasonable prejudices in

favour of one’s own country. I have never heard of a people, among

whom foreigners in general are so ill received, and find so many

obstacles to their advancement as among the English. From the peculiar

taste of this nation, foreigners are encouraged in nothing; and by the

form of government, they are excluded from all emoluments. We must

agree in their favour, however, that an Englishman is never obliged to

any person for that hospitality he churlishly refuses others. Where,

except in London, is there to be seen any of these insolent islanders

servilely cringing at court? In what country except their own do they

seek to make their fortunes? They are churlish it is true, but their

churlishness does not displease me, while it is consistent with

justice. I think it very well they should be nothing but Englishmen;

since they have no occasion to be men.]

[Footnote 17: In imitation of Eloisa, he calls Clara, his cousin, and

Clara, after her example, likewise calls him her friend.]

[Footnote 18: Simple Eloisa! you give no proof here of yours.]

[Footnote 19: The true philosophy of lovers is that of Plato; while

the passion lasts they employ no other. A susceptible mind knows not

how to quit this philosopher; a cold insensible reader cannot endure

him.]

[Footnote 20: Without anticipating the judgment which the reader, or,

Eloisa may pass on the following narratives, it may not be improper to

observe, that, if I had written them myself, though I might not have

made them better, I should have done it in a different manner. I was

several times going to cancel them, and substitute others written in

my own way in their place; but I have at length ventured to insert

them as they are. I bethought myself that a young man of four and

twenty ought not to see things in the same light as a man of fifty,

whom experience had too well instructed to place them in a proper

point of view. I reflected also, that, without having played any great

part in life, I was not however, in a situation to speak with absolute

impartiality. Let these letters pass then as they were originally

written. The common place remarks or trivial observations that may be

found in them, are but small faults, and import little. But it is of

the greatest importance to a lover of truth, that to the end of his

life his passions should never affect the impartiality of his

writings.]

[Footnote 21: We ought, perhaps, to overlook this reasoning in a

Swiss, who sees his own country well governed without the

establishment of either of these professions. How can a state subsist

without soldiers for its defence! no, every state must have defenders.

But its members ought to be soldiers from principle, and not by

profession. The same individuals among the Greeks and Romans were

frequently magistrates in the city, and officers in the field; and

never were either of those functions better served than before those

strange prejudices took place, which now separate and dishonour them.]

[Footnote 22: This reflection, whether true or false, can be extended

only to the subalterns, and those who do not reside in Paris; for

almost all the great and polite men in the kingdom are in the service,

and even the court itself is military. But there is a great difference

between the manners learned in a campaign, and those which are

contracted by living in garrison.]

[Footnote 23: Ye sweating fires, that in the furnace blaze. _A line of

sonnet by Marini._]

[Footnote 24: Provided always that no unforeseen object of pleasantry

starts up to disturb their gravity; for in that case, it is laid hold

of by every one in a moment, and it is impossible to recall their

serious attention. I remember that a handful of gingerbread cakes once

ludicrously put an end to a dramatic representation at the fair. The

actions were indeed quadrupeds; but how many trifling things are there

that would prove gingerbread cakes to some sort of men! it is well

known whom Fontenelle intended to describe in his history of the

Tyrintians.]

[Footnote 25: To be afflicted at the decease of any person, betrays a

sense of humanity, and is a sign of a good disposition, but is no

instance of virtue; there being no moral obligation to lament even the

death of a father. Whoever in such a case, therefore, is not really

afflicted, ought not to affect the appearance of it; for it is more

necessary always to avoid deceit, than to comply with custom.]

[Footnote 26: Moliere ought not to be ranked here with Racine: the

first indeed abounds with maxims and sentential observations, like all

the others, especially in his versified pieces: but in Racine all is

sentimental; he makes every character speak for the author, and is in

this point truly singular among all the dramatic writers of his

nation.]

[Footnote 27: I should have but a bad opinion of the reader’s

sagacity, who, knowing the character and situation of Eloisa, should

think this piece of curiosity hers. It will be seen hereafter that her

lover knew to whom to attribute it. If he could have been deceived in

this point, he had not deserved the name of a lover.]

[Footnote 28: If the reader approves of this criterion, and makes use

of it to judge of this work, I will not appeal from his judgment,

whatever it prove.]

[Footnote 29: Freedom, ease, cleverness.]

[Footnote 30: Speak for yourself, my dear philosopher, others may have

been more happy. A coquet only, promises to every body, what she

should reserve but for one.]

[Footnote 31: Amorous imagination.]

[Footnote 32: Things are changed since that time. By many

circumstances one would suppose these letters to have been written

above twenty years ago; but by their stile, and the manners they

describe, one would conclude them to be of the last century.]

[Footnote 33: I shall not give my opinion of this letter; but I doubt

much, whether a judgment which allows them the qualities they despise,

and denies them those which they value, will be pleasing to the French

ladies.]

[Footnote 34: Obliged by the tyrant to appear on the stage, he

lamented his disgrace in some very affecting verses which justly

irritated every honest mind against Caesar. _After having lived,_ said

he, _sixty years with honour, I left my house this morning, a Roman

knight, but shall return to it this evening an infamous stage-player.

Alas! I have lived a day too long. O fortune! if it was my lot to be

thus once disgraced, why did you not force me hither while youth and

vigour had left me at least an agreeable person: but now, what a

wretched object do I present to the insults of the people of Rome? a

feeble voice, a weak body, a mere corpse an animated skeleton, which

has nothing left of me but my name._ The entire prologue which he

spoke on this occasion, the injustice done him by Caesar, who was

piqued at the noble freedom with which he avenged his offended honour,

the affront he receives at the circus, the meanness of Cicero in

upbraiding him, with the ingenious and satirical reply of Laberius,

are all preserved by Aulus Gellius, and compose in my opinion the most

curious and interesting piece in his whole collection: which is, for

the most part, a very insipid one.]

[Footnote 35: They know nothing of this in Italy; the public would not

suffer it, and thus the entertainment is subject to less expense: it

would cost too much to be ill-served.]

[Footnote 36: _Le bucheron_.]

[Footnote 37: The light airs of the French music have not been

unaptly compared to a cow’s courant, or the hobblings of a fat goose

attempting to fly.]

[Footnote 38: And why should he not omit it? have the women of these

times any thing to do with concerns of this kind? what would become of

us and the state? what would become of our celebrated authors, our

illustrious academicians, if the ladies should give up the direction

of matters of literature and business, and apply themselves only to

the affairs of their family?]

[Footnote 39: We find in the fourth part, that this feigned name was

St. Preux.]

[Footnote 40: Where did the honest Swiss learn this? women of gaiety

have long since assumed more imperious airs. They begin by boldly

introducing their lovers into the house, and if they permit their

husbands to continue there, it is only while they behave towards them

with proper respect. A woman who took pains to conceal a criminal

intrigue, would shew that she was ashamed, and would be despised; not

one female of spirit would take notice of her.]

[Footnote 41: Mr. Richardson makes a jest of these attachments founded

at first sight, and founded on an unaccountable congeniality of

nature. It is easy to laugh at these attachments; but as too many of

this kind take place, instead of entertaining ourselves with

controverting them, would it not be better to teach us how to conquer

them.]

[Footnote 42: Admitting the analogy to be chimerical, yet it lasts as

long as the illusion, which makes us suppose it real.]

[Footnote 43: Minister of the parish.]

[Footnote 44: See page 170 of the present volume.]

[Footnote 45: See the first Vol. Letter 24.]

[Footnote 46: No association is more common than pride and stinginess.

We take from nature, from real pleasures, nay from the stock of

necessaries, what we lavish upon opinion. One man adorns his palace at

the expense of his kitchen: another prefers a fine service of plate to

a good dinner: a third makes a sumptuous entertainment, and starves

himself the rest of the year. When I see a side-board richly

decorated, I expect that the wine will poison me. How often in the

country, when we breathe the fresh morning air, are we tempted by the

prospect of a fine garden? we rise early, and by walking gain a keen

appetite, which makes us wish for breakfast. Perhaps the domestic is

out of the way, or provisions are wanting, or the lady has not given

her orders, and you are tired to death with waiting. Sometimes they

prevent your desires, and make you a very pompous offer of every

thing, upon condition that you accept of nothing. You must last till

three o’clock, or breakfast with the tulips. I remember to have walked

in a very beautiful park, which belonged to a lady, who tho’ extremely

fond of coffee, never drank any but when it was at a very low price;

yet she very liberally allowed her gardener a salary of a thousand

crowns. For my part, I should chuse to have tulips less finely

variegated, and to drink coffee whenever my appetite called for it.]

[Footnote 47: A strange letter this, for the discussion of such a

subject. Do men argue so coolly on a question of this nature, when

they examine it on their own accounts? Is the letter a forgery, or

does the author reason only with an intent to be refuted? what makes

our opinion in this particular dubious, is the example of Robeck which

he cites, and which seems to warrant his own. Robeck deliberated so

gravely that he had patience to write a book, a large, voluminous,

weighty, and dispassionate book; and when he had concluded, according

to his principles, that it was lawful to put an end to our being, he

destroyed himself with the same composure that he wrote. Let us beware

of the prejudices of the times, and of particular countries. When

suicide is out of fashion, we conclude that none but madmen destroy

themselves; all the efforts of courage appear chimerical to dastardly

minds; every one judges of others by himself. Nevertheless, how many

instances are there, well attested, of men, in every other respect

perfectly discreet; who, without remorse, rage, or despair, have

quitted life for no other reason than because it was a burthen to

them, and have died with more composure than they lived?]

[Footnote 48: No, my lord, we do not put an end to misery by these

means, but rather fill the measure of affliction, by burning asunder

the last ties which attach us to felicity. When we regret what was

dear to us, grief itself still attaches us to the object we lament,

which is a state less deplorable, than to be attached to nothing.]

[Footnote 49: Obligations more dear than those of friendship! is it a

philosopher who talks thus! But this affected sophist was of an

amorous disposition.]

[Footnote 50: I do not rightly understand this: Kensington not being

above a mile and a half from London, the noblemen who go to court, do

not lie there; yet Lord B---- tells us, he was obliged to stay there I

know not how many days.]

[Footnote 51: What great obligation has he to her, who occasioned all

the misfortunes of his life? Thou wretched querist! he is indebted to

her for the honour, the virtue and peace of his beloved Eloisa: he

owes her everything.]

[Footnote 52: At Paris, they pique themselves on rendering society

easy and commodious; and this ease is made to consist of a great

number of rules, equally important with the above. In good company,

every thing is regulated according to form and order. All these

ceremonies are in and out of fashion as quick as lightening. The

science of polite life consists in being always upon the watch, to

seize them as they fly, to affect them, and shew that we are

acquainted with the mode of the day.]

[Footnote 53: In my Letter to M. D’Alembert, concerning the theatres,

I have transcribed the following passage and some others; but as I was

then preparing this edition, I thought it better to wait this

publication till I took notice of the quotation.]

[Footnote 54: I have narrowly examined into the management of great

families, and I have found it impossible for a master who has twenty

servants, to know whether he has one honest man among them, and not to

mistake the greatest rascal perhaps to be that one. This alone would

give me an aversion to riches. The rich lose one of the sweetest

pleasures of life, the pleasure of confidence and esteem. They

purchase all their gold at a dear rate!]

[Footnote 55: Desert islands in the South sea, celebrated in Lord

Anson’s voyage.]

[Footnote 56: The mice, owls, hawks, and above all, children.]

[Footnote 57: They were therefore like those fashionable little woods,

so ridiculously twisted, that you are obliged to walk in a zig zag

manner, and to make a _pirouette_ at every step.]

[Footnote 58: I am persuaded that sometime hence, gardens will be

furnished with nothing belonging to the country; neither plants or

trees will be suffered to grow in them: we shall see nothing but China

flowers, baboons, arbor work, gravel of all colours, and fine vases

with nothing in them.]

[Footnote 59: He might have enlarged on the bad taste of lopping trees

in such a ridiculous manner, to make them shoot to the clouds, by

taking off their fine tops, their umbrage, by draining the sap, and

preventing their thriving. This method, it is true, supplies the

gardeners with wood, but it robs the kingdom of it, which is not over

stocked with it already. One would imagine that nature was different

in France, from what it is in any other part of the world, they take

so much pains to disfigure her. The parks are planted with nothing but

long poles; they are like so many forests of masts, and you walk in

the midst of woods without finding any shelter.]

[Footnote 60: The sagacious Wolmar had not sufficiently reflected. Was

he, who was so skilful in judging of men, so bad a judge of nature?

Did he not know that if the author of nature displays his greatness in

great things, he appears still greater in those which are small?]

[Footnote 61: I do not know whether there has ever been an attempt to

give a slight curve to these long walks, that the eye may not be able

to reach the end of the walk, and that the opposite extremity may be

hid from the spectator. It is true, the beauty of the prospects in

perspective would be lost by these means; but proprietors would reap

one advantage which they generally prize at a high rate, which is that

of making their grounds more extensive in appearance, and in the midst

of a starry plot thus bounded, one might think himself in a vast park.

I am persuaded that the walk would be less tiresome, though more

solitary; for whatever gives play to the imagination, excites ideas,

and nourishes the mind; but gardeners are people who have no idea of

these things. How often in a rural spot, would the pencil drop from

their hands, as it did from Le Nostre’s in St. James’s park, if they

knew like him what gave life to nature, and interested the beholder?]

[Footnote 62: He might have added the conclusion, which is very fine,

and as apposite to the subject.

_Si vedria che I lo nemici

Anno in seno, e si reduce

Nel parere a noi felici

Ogni lor felicita._]

[Footnote 63: Mrs. Orbe was ignorant however that the first two names

are titles of distinction in Russia; but Boyard is only that of a

private gentleman.]

[Footnote 64: The reader is not yet acquainted with this reason; but

he is desired not to be impatient.]

[Footnote 65: You women are very ridiculous, to think of rendering

such a frivolous and fluctuating passion as that of love consistent.

Every thing in nature is changeable, every thing is continually

fluctuating, and yet you would inspire a constant passion! And what

right have you to pretend that we must love you for ever, because we

loved you yesterday? Then preserve the same face, the same age, the

same humour; be always the same, and we will always love you, if we

can. But when you alter continually, and require us always to love

you, it is in fact desiring us every minute not to love you; it is not

seeking for constant minds, but looking out for such as are as fickle

as your own.]

[Footnote 66: A bird of passage on the lake of Geneva, which is not

good to eat.]

[Footnote 67: Different sorts of birds on the lake of Geneva, and very

good to eat.]

[Footnote 68: These mountains are so high, that half an hour after

sun-set, its rays still gild the tops of them, and the reflection of

red on those white summits, forms a beautiful roseate colour, which

may be perceived at a great distance.]

[Footnote 69: The snipe on the lake of Geneva is not the bird called

by that name in France. The more lively and animated chirping of the

former, gives an air of life and freshness to the lake at night, which

renders its banks still more delightful.]

[Footnote 70: This letter appears to have been written before the

receipt of the preceding.]

[Footnote 71: Not that this philosophical age has not produced one

true philosopher. I know one, I must confess, and but one; but the

happiest circumstance is, that he resides in my native country. Shall

I venture publicly to name him, whose honour it is to have remained

unknown? Yes, learned and modest Abauzit, let your sublime simplicity

forgive my zeal, which, to say truth, hath not your name for its

object. No, it is not you I would make known in an age unworthy to

admire you; it is Geneva I would honour, by making it known as the

place of your residence. It is my fellow citizens who are honoured by

your presence. Happy the country, where the merit that conceals

itself, is by so much the more esteemed. Happy the people, among whom

presumptuous and forward youth is ashamed of its dogmatic insolence,

and blushes at its vain knowledge before the learned ignorance of age.

Venerable and virtuous old man! you have never been praised by

babbling wits; no noisy academician has written your elogium. Instead

of depositing all your wisdom in books, you have displayed it in your

life, as an example to the country you have deigned to make the object

of your esteem. You have lived like Socrates; but he died by the hands

of his fellow citizens, while you are cherished by yours.]

[Footnote 72: The letter here alluded to is not inserted in this

collection. The reason of it, will be seen hereafter.]

[Footnote 73: There is near Clarens a village called Moutru, the right

of common to which is sufficient to maintain the inhabitants, though

they had not a foot of land of their own. For which reason, the

freedom of that village is almost as difficult to be obtained as that

of Berne. It is a great pity that some honest magistrate is not

appointed to make these burghers a little more sociable, or their

burghership less dear.]

[Footnote 74: Man, perverted from his first state of simplicity,

becomes so stupid that he even knows not what to desire. His wishes

always tend to wealth and never to happiness.]

[Footnote 75: To give to beggars, say some people, is to raise a

nursery of thieves: though it is, on the contrary, to prevent their

becoming such. I allow that the poor ought not to be encouraged to

turn beggars; but, when once they are so, they ought to be supported,

lest they should turn robbers. Nothing induces people to change their

profession so much as their not being able to live by it: now those,

who have once experienced the lazy life of a beggar, get such an

aversion to work that they had rather go upon the highway, at the

hazard of their necks, than betake themselves again to labour. A

farthing is soon asked for and soon refused; but twenty farthings

might provide a supper for a poor man, whom twenty refusals might

exasperate to despair: and who is there who would ever refuse so

slight a gift, if he reflected that he might thereby be the means of

saving two men, the one from theft, and perhaps the other from being

murdered? I have somewhere read that beggars are a kind of vermin,

that hang about the wealthy. It is natural for children to cling about

their parents; but the rich, like cruel parents, disown theirs, and

leave them to be maintained by each other.]

[Footnote 76: And that it does so, appears to me indisputable. There

is true magnificence in the proportion and symmetry of the parts of a

great palace; but there is none in a confused heap of irregular

buildings. There is a magnificence in the uniformity of a regiment in

battalia; but none in the crowd of people, that stand gazing on them,

although perhaps there is not a man among them whose apparel is not of

more value than those of any individual soldier. In a word,

magnificence is nothing more than a grand scene of regularity, whence

it comes to pass that, of all sights imaginable, the most magnificent

are those of nature.]

[Footnote 77: The noise of people in a house of distinction

continually disturbs the quiet of the master of it. It is impossible

for him to conceal any thing from so many Arguses. A crowd of

creditors make him pay dear for that of his admirers. His apartments

are generally so large and splendid, that he is obliged to betake

himself to a closet that he may sleep at ease, and his monkey is often

better lodged than himself. If he would dine, it depends on his cook

and not on his appetite; if he would go abroad, he lies at the mercy

of his horses. A thousand embarrassments stop him in the streets; he

is impatient to be where he is going, but knows not the use of his

legs. His mistress expects him, but the dirty pavement frightens him,

and the weight of his laced coat oppresses him, so that he cannot walk

twenty paces. Hence he loses, indeed, the opportunity of seeing his

mistress; but he is well repaid by the by-standers for the

disappointment, every one remarking his equipage, admiring it, and

saying aloud to the next person, There goes Mr. Such-a-one!]

[Footnote 78: Locke himself, the sagacious Locke, has forgot it,

instructing us rather in the things we ought to require of our

children, than in the means.]

[Footnote 79: This doctrine, so true in itself, surprizes me as

adopted by Mr. Wolmar; the reason of it will be seen presently.]

[Footnote 80: If there ever was a man upon earth made happy by his

vanity, it is past a doubt, that he was a fool.]

[Footnote 81: Here appears to be some little mistake. Nothing is so

useful to the judgment as memory: it is true, however, that it is not

the remembrance of words.]

[Footnote 82: The translator cannot help observing that it was

extraordinary in Mr. Rousseau to put such a false, ridiculous,

assertion in the mouth of an Englishman.]

[Footnote 83: God forbid, that I should give a sanction to assertions

so rash and severe; I insinuate only, that there are people who make

such assertions; and for whose indiscretion, the conduct of the clergy

in every country and of all religions, often give but too much

occasion. So far am I, however, from intending meanly to screen myself

by this note, that my real opinion on this subject is, that no true

believer can be a persecutor and an enemy to toleration. If I were a

magistrate, and the law inflicted death on atheists, I would begin to

put it in execution, by burning the first man that should come to

accuse and prosecute another.]

[Footnote 84: How! Will the deity take up with only the refuse of his

creatures? not so; all the love the human heart can possess for

created beings is so little, that when they think it is replete, it is

yet vacant; an infinite object only can possess it entirely.]

[Footnote 85: It is certain, the mind must be fatigued by the unequal

talk of contemplating the deity. Such ideas are too sensible for the

vulgar, who require a more sensible object of devotion. Are the

Catholics to blame, then, in filling their legends, their calendars,

and their churches with little angels, cherubs, and handsome saints?

The infant Jesus, in the arms of his modest and beautiful mother, is

one of the most affecting, and, at the same time, the most agreeable

spectacles that Christian devotion can present to the view of the

faithful.]

[Footnote 86: How much more natural is this humane sentiment, than the

horrid zeal of persecutors, always employed in tormenting the

unbeliever, as if, to damn him in this life, they themselves were the

fore-runners of devils? I shall ever continue to repeat it; a

persecutor of others cannot be a believer himself.]

[Footnote 87: There is here a long letter wanting, from Lord B---- to

Eloisa. It is mentioned in the sequel; but, for particular reasons, I

was obliged to suppress it.]

[Footnote 88: Hunting indeed might be added. But this exercise is now

made so commodious, that there is not half the fatigue or pleasure in

it there used to be. But I shall not here treat of this subject, which

would furnish too much matter to be inserted in a note: I may take

occasion, perhaps, to speak of it elsewhere.]

[Footnote 89: The vintage is very late in this country; because the

principal crop is of white wines; to which the frost is of service.]

[Footnote 90: This will be better understood by the following extract

of a letter from Eloisa, not inserted in this collection. This, says

Mr. Wolmar, taking me aside, is the second proof I intended to put him

to, if he had not paid great respect to your father, I should have

mistrusted him. But, said I, how shall we reconcile that respect to

the antipathy that subsists between them? It subsists no longer,

replied he. Your father’s prejudices have done St. Preux all the harm

they could; he has no farther reason to fear them, he is not angry at

your father, but pities him. The baron, on his side, is no longer

jealous of St. Preux; he has a good heart; is sensible he has injured

him, and is sorry for it. I see they will do very well together, and

will for the future see each other with pleasure. From this moment

therefore I shall put an entire confidence in him.]

[Footnote 91: In Switzerland they drink a great deal of bitter wine;

and in general, as the herbs of the Alps have more virtue than the

plants of other countries, they make great use of infusions.]

[Footnote 92: If hence arises a kind of equality not less agreeable to

those who descend, than to those who are elevated, does it not follow,

that all conditions of life are in themselves almost indifferent,

since people are not always confined to them? Beggars are unhappy,

because they are always beggars; kings are miserable, because they are

always kings. People in a middling condition are the happiest, because

they can easier vary their circumstances, to enjoy the pleasures of

those above or those below them. They are also more intelligent,

because they have an opportunity of knowing more of the prejudices of

mankind and of comparing them with each other. This seems to me the

principal reason why, generally speaking, people of a middling

station in life are the most happy and are persons of the best sense.]

[Footnote 93: For the better understanding this letter, the reader

should have been made acquainted with the adventures of Lord B----,

which at first I had indeed some notion of inserting in this

collection. But, on second thought, I could not resolve to spoil the

simplicity of this history of the two lovers, with the romance of his.

It is better to leave something to the reader’s imagination.]

[Footnote 94: By a letter not published in this collection, it appears

that Lord B---- was of opinion, that the souls of the wicked are

annihilated in death.]

[Footnote 95: At present they do not take the trouble to seek the

vices of foreigners: the latter are ready enough to bring them.]

[Footnote 96: It is to be remembered that these letters were written

some years ago, a circumstance, I am afraid, that will be often

suggested to the reader.]

[Footnote 97: Some men are continent without having any merit in it,

others are so through virtue, and I doubt not there are many Romish

priests in the latter situation: but to impose a state of celibacy on

so numerous a body of men as the clergy of that church, it is not to

bid them abstain from women, but to be content with the wives of other

men. I am really surprized that in countries where morals are held in

any esteem, the legislature should tolerate such scandalous

engagements.]

[Footnote 98: This is a direct contradiction to what he asserted

before. The poor philosopher seems to be in a droll dilemma between

two pretty women. One might be apt to think he chose to make love to

neither, that he might the better love them both.]

[Footnote 99: St. Preux supposes moral conscience to depend on

sentiment not on judgment, which is contrary to the opinion of the

philosophers. I am apt to think however that he is in the right.]

[Footnote 100: This is not the matter in dispute. It is to know

whether the will be determined without a cause, or what is the cause

that determines the will.]

[Footnote 101: Our gallant philosopher having imitated Abelard in his

practice, seems desirous also of adopting his principles. Their notion

of prayer being a good deal alike.]

[Footnote 102: A sort of enthusiasts that take it into their heads to

follow the gospel strictly according to the letter; in the manner of

the Methodists in England the Moravians in Germany, and the Jansenists

in France; excepting, however, that the latter want only to be masters

to be more severe and persecuting than their enemies.]

[Footnote 103: Hence it is that every sovereign who aspires to be

despotic, aspires to the honour of being miserable. In every kingdom

in the world, would you see the man who is the most unhappy of all his

countrymen, go directly to the sovereign, particularly if he be an

absolute monarch.]

[Footnote 104: This is not quite exact. Suetonius tells us that

Vespasian employed himself as usual, and gave audience on his

deathbed: but perhaps he had done better to have risen to give

audience, and to have gone to bed again to die. This I know, that

Vespasian, if not a great man, was at least a great prince; but it is

not a time to put on the comedian at the hour of death.]

[Footnote 105: Plato says, that the souls of the just, who have

contracted no uncleanness on earth, disengage themselves by death of

all matter, and recover their original purity. But as to the souls of

those who have indulged themselves in filthy and vicious passions,

they do not soon recover that purity, but drag along with them certain

terrestrial particles, that confine them, as it were, to hover about

the receptacles of their bodies. Hence, says he, are seen those

apparitions, which sometimes haunt burial places, etc. in expectation

of new transmigrations,----It is a madness common to philosophers in

all ages, to deny the existence of what is real, and to puzzle their

brains to explain what is only imaginary.]

[Footnote 106: This seems to me to be well expressed; for what can it

be to meet the Deity face to face, but to be able to read the supreme

intelligence.]

[Footnote 107: It is easy to understand that, by the word _see_, is

here meant purely an act of the intellect, such as that whereby we are

said to see the Deity, and the Deity to see us. We cannot perceive the

immediate communication of spirits: but we can conceive it very well;

and better, in my opinion, than the communication of motion between

bodies.]

[Footnote 108: It is clearly to be seen that the dream of St. Preux,

of which Mrs. Orbe’s imagination was constantly full, suggested the

expedient of the veil. I conceive also that if we examine into matters

of this kind strictly, we shall find the same relation between many

predictions and their accomplishment. Events are not always predicted

because they are to happen; but they happen because they were

predicted.]

[Footnote 109: The people of this country, though protestants, are

extremely superstitious.]

[Footnote 110: After having read these letters several times over, I

think I have discovered the reason why the interest, which I imagine

every well-disposed reader will take in them, though perhaps not very

great, is yet agreeable: and this is, because, little as it may prove,

it is not excited by villainies or crimes, nor mixed with the

disagreeable sensations of hatred. I cannot conceive what pleasure it

can give a writer, to imagine and describe the character of a villain;

to put himself in his situation as often as he represents his actions,

or to set them in the most flattering point of view. For my part, I

greatly pity the authors of many of our tragedies, so full of

wickedness and horror, who spend their lives in making characters act

and speak, which one cannot see or hear without shuddering. It would

be to me a terrible misfortune to be condemned to such labour; nor can

I think but that those who do it for amusement must be violently

zealous for the amusement of the public. I admire their genius and

talents; but I thank God, that he has not bestowed such talents upon

me.----]