CHAPTER VI.

_The influence of solitude on the passions._

The passions lose in solitude a certain portion of that regulating weight

by which in society they are guided and controlled; the counteracting

effects produced by variety, the restraints imposed by the obligations

of civility, and the checks which arise from the calls of humanity,

occur much less frequently in retirement than amidst the multifarious

transactions of a busy world. The desires and sensibilities of the

heart having no real objects on which their vibrations can pendulate,

are stimulated and increased by the powers of imagination. All the

propensities of the soul, indeed, experience a degree of restlessness and

vehemence greater than they ever feel while diverted by the pleasures,

subdued by the surrounding distresses, and engaged by the business of

active and social life.

The calm which seems to accompany the mind in its retreat is deceitful;

the passions are secretly at work within the heart; the imagination is

continually heaping fuel on the latent fire, and at length the laboring

desire bursts forth, and glows with volcanic heat and fury. The temporary

inactivity and inertness which retirement seems to impose, may check,

but cannot subdue the energies of spirit. The high pride and lofty

ideas of great and independent minds may be, for a while, lulled into

repose; but the moment the feelings of such a character are awakened by

indignity or outrage, its anger springs like an elastic body drawn from

its centre, and pierces with vigorous severity the object that provoked

it. The perils of solitude, indeed, always increase in proportion as

the sensibilities, imaginations, and passions of its votaries are

quick, excursive, and violent. The man may be the inmate of a cottage,

but the same passions and inclinations still lodge within his heart:

_his_ mansion may be changed, but _their_ residence is the same; and

though they appear to be silent and undisturbed, they are secretly

influencing all the propensities of his heart. Whatever be the cause

of his retirement, whether it be a sense of undeserved misfortune, the

ingratitude of supposed friends, the pangs of despised love, or the

disappointment of ambition, memory prevents the wound from healing, and

stings the soul with indignation and resentment. The image of departed

pleasures haunts the mind, and robs it of its wished tranquillity. The

ruling passion still subsists; it fixes itself more strongly on the

fancy; moves with greater agitation; and becomes, in retirement, in

proportion as it is inclined to vice or virtue, either a horrid and

tormenting spectre, inflicting apprehension and dismay, or a delightful

and supporting angel, irradiating the countenance with smiles of joy, and

filling the heart with peace and gladness.

Blest is the man, as far as earth can bless,

Whose measur’d passions reach no wild excess;

Who, urged by nature’s voice, her gifts enjoys,

Nor other means than nature’s force employs.

While warm with youth the sprightly current flows,

Each vivid sense with vigorous rapture glows;

And when he droops beneath the hand of age,

No vicious habit stings with fruitless rage;

Gradual his strength and gay sensations cease,

While joys tumultuous sink in silent peace.

The extraordinary power which the passions assume, and the improper

channel in which they are apt to flow in retired situations, is

conspicuous from the greater acrimony with which they are in general

tainted in small villages than in large towns. It is true, indeed, that

they do not always explode in such situations with the open and daring

violence which they exhibit in the metropolis; but lie buried as it

were, and mouldering in the bosom with a more malignant flame. To those

who only observe the listlessness and languor which distinguish the

characters of those who reside in small provincial towns, the slow and

uniform rotation of amusements which fills up the leisure of their lives;

the confused wildness of their cares; the poor subterfuges to which they

are continually resorting, in order to avoid the clouds of discontent

that impend in angry darkness, over their heads; the lagging current

of their drooping spirits; the miserable poverty of their intellectual

powers; the eagerness with which they strive to raise a card party; the

transports they enjoy on the prospect of any new diversion or occasional

exhibition; the haste with which they run toward any sudden, unexpected

noise that interrupts the deep silence of their situation; and the

patient industry with which, from day to day, they watch each other’s

conduct, and circulate reports of every action of each other’s lives,

will scarcely imagine that any virulence of passion can disturb the

bosoms of persons who live in so quiet and seemingly composed a state.

But the unoccupied time and barren minds of such characters cause the

faintest emotions, and most common desires, to act with all the violence

of high and untamed passions. The lowest diversions, a cock fighting, or

a pony race, make the bosom of a country ’squire beat with the highest

rapture; while the inability to attend the monthly ball fills the minds

of his wife and daughter with the keenest anguish. Circumstances, which

scarcely make any impression on those who reside in the metropolis,

plunge every description of residents in a country village into all

the extravagances of joy, or the dejection of sorrow; from the peer to

the peasant, from the duchess to the dairy maid, all is rapture and

convulsion. Competition is carried on for the humble honors and petty

interests of a sequestered town, or miserable hamlet, with as much heat

and rancor, as it is for the highest dignities and greatest emoluments

of the state. Upon many occasions, indeed, ambition, envy, revenge, and

all the disorderly and malignant passions, are felt and exercised with a

greater degree of violence and obstinacy amidst the little contentions of

claybuilt cottages, than ever prevailed amidst the highest commotions of

courts. Plutarch relates that when Cæsar, after his appointment to the

government of Spain, came to a little town, as he was passing the Alps,

his friends, by way of mirth, took occasion to say, “Can there here be

any disputes for offices, any contentions for precedency, or such envy

and ambition as we behold among the great in all the transactions of

imperial Rome?” The idea betrayed their ignorance of human nature; while

the celebrated reply of their great commander, that _he would rather be

the first man in this little town, than the second even in the imperial

city_, spoke the language, not of an individual, but of the species;

and instructed them that there is no place, however insignificant, in

which the same passions do not proportionately prevail. The humble

competitors for village honors, however low and subordinate they may

be, feel as great anxiety for pre-eminence, as much jealousy of rivals,

and as violent envy against superiors, as agitate the bosoms of the

most ambitious statesmen in contending for the highest prize of glory,

of riches, or of power. The manner, perhaps, in which these inferior

candidates exert their passions may be less artful, and the objects of

them less noble, but they are certainly not less virulent. “Having,” says

Euphelia, who had quitted London, to enjoy the quietude and happiness

of a rural village, “been driven by the mere necessity of escaping from

absolute inactivity, to make myself more acquainted with the affairs

and happiness of this place, I am now no longer a stranger to _rural

conversation_ and employments; but am far from discerning in them more

innocence or wisdom than in the sentiments or conduct of those with whom

I have passed more cheerful and more fashionable hours. It is common

to reproach the tea table and the park, with giving opportunities and

encouragement to scandal I cannot wholly clear them from the charge, but

must, however, observe, in favor of the modish prattlers, that if not by

principle, we are at least by accident, less guilty of defamation than

the country ladies. For, having greater numbers to observe and censure,

we are commonly content to charge them only with their own faults or

follies, and seldom give way to malevolence, but such as arises from

injury or affront, real or imaginary, offered to ourselves. But in those

distant provinces, where the same families inhabit the same houses from

age to age, they transmit and recount the faults of a whole succession.

I have been informed how every estate in the neighborhood was originally

got, and find, if I may credit the accounts given me, that there is

not a single acre in the hands of the right owner. I have been told of

intrigues between beaus and toasts, that have been now three centuries

in their quiet graves; and am often entertained with traditional scandal

on persons of whose names there would have been no remembrance, had they

not committed somewhat that might disgrace their descendants. If once

there happens a quarrel between the principal persons of two families,

the malignity is continued without end; and it is common for old maids

to fall out about some election in which their grandfathers were

competitors. Thus malice and hatred descend here with an inheritance; and

it is necessary to be well versed in history, that the various factions

of the country may be understood. You cannot expect to be on good

terms with families who are resolved to love nothing in common; and in

selecting your intimates, you are, perhaps, to consider which party you

most favor in the barons’ wars.”

Resentments and enmities burn with a much more furious flame among

the thinly-scattered inhabitants of a petty village, than amidst the

ever varying concourse of a great metropolis. The objects by which the

passions are set on fire are hidden from our view by the tumults which

prevail in a crowded city, and the bosom willingly loses the pains which

such emotions excite when the causes which occasioned them are forgot:

but in country villages, the thorns by which the feelings have been hurt

are continually before our eyes, and preserve on every approach toward

them, a remembrance of the injuries sustained. An extreme devout and

highly religious lady, who resided in a retired hamlet in Swisserland,

once told me, in a conversation on this subject, that she had completely

suppressed all indignation against the envy, the hatred, and the malice

of her surrounding neighbors; for that she found they were so deeply dyed

in sin, that a rational remonstrance was lost upon them; and that the

only vexation she felt from a sense of their wretchedness arose from the

idea that her soul would at the last day be obliged to keep company with

such incorrigible wretches.

The inhabitants of the country, indeed, both of the lower and middling

classes, cannot be expected to possess characters of a very respectable

kind, when we look at the conduct of those who set them the example. A

country magistrate, who has certainly great opportunities of forming the

manners and morals of the district over which he presides, is in general

puffed up with high and extravagant conceptions of the superiority of

his wisdom, and the extent of his power; and raising his idea of the

greatness of his character in an inverse proportion to his notions of

the insignificance and littleness of those around him, he sits enthroned

with fancied pre-eminence, the disdainful tyrant, rather than the kind

protector of his neighbors. Deprived of all liberal and instructive

society, confined in their knowledge both of men and things, the slaves

of prejudice and the pupils of folly; with contracted hearts and degraded

faculties the inhabitants of a country village feel all the base and

ignoble passions, sordid rapacity, mean envy, and insulting ostentation

more forcibly than they are felt either in the enlarged society of the

metropolis, or even in the confined circle of the monastery.

The social virtues, indeed, are almost totally excluded from cloisters,

as well as from every other kind of solitary institution: for when the

habits, interests, and pleasures of the species are pent up by any

means within a narrow compass, mutual jealousies and exasperations

must prevail; every trifling immunity, petty privilege, and paltry

distinction, becomes an object of the most violent contention; and

increasing animosities at length reach to such a degree of virulence,

that the pious flock is converted into a herd of famished wolves, eager

to worry and devour each other.

The laws of every convent strictly enjoin the holy sisterhood to

live in Christian charity and sincere affection with each other. I

have, however, when attending these fair recluses in my professional

character, observed many of them with wrinkles, that seemed rather the

effect of angry perturbation, than of peaceful age, with aspects formed

rather by envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, than by mild

benevolence and singleness of heart. But I should do injustice if I

did not declare, that I have seen some few who were strangers to such

unworthy passions; whose countenances were unindented by their effects:

and whose beauty and comeliness still shone in their native lustre and

simplicity. It was, indeed, painful to reflect upon the sufferings which

these lovely innocents must endure, until the thoughts of their lost

hopes, defeated happiness, and unmerited wrongs, should have changed

the milky kindness of their virtuous dispositions into the gall-like

bitterness of vexation and despair; until the brightness of their

charming features should be darkened by the clouds of discontent, which

their continued imprisonment would create; and until their cheerful and

easy tempers should be perverted by the corrosions of those vindictive

passions which the jealous furies, with whom they were immured, and

to whom they formed so striking a contrast, must in time so cruelly

inflict. These lovely mourners, on entering the walls of a convent, are

obliged to submit to the tyranny of an envious superior, or the jealousy

of the older inmates, whose angry passions arise in proportion as they

perceive others less miserable than themselves; and retiring, at the

stated periods, from their joint persecution, they find that the gloomy

solitude to which they have flown, only tends to aggravate and widen

the wound it was expected to cure. It is, indeed, almost impossible

for any female, however amiable, to preserve in the joyless gloom of

conventual solitude the cheering sympathies of nature. A retrospect of

her past life most probably exhibits to her tortured fancy, superstition

stinging with scorpion like severity her pious mind; love sacrificed

on the altar of family pride; or fortune ruined by the avarice of a

perfidious guardian; while the future presents to her view the dreary

prospect of an eternal and melancholy separation from all the enjoyments

of society, and a continual exposure to the petulance and ill humor of

the dissatisfied sisterhood. What disposition, however mild and gentle

by nature, can preserve itself amidst such confluent dangers? How is

it possible to prevent the most amiable tenderness of heart, the most

lively and sensible mind from becoming, under such circumstances, a prey

to the bitterness of affliction and malevolence? Those who have had

an opportunity to observe the operation of the passions on the habits,

humors, and dispositions of recluse females, have perceived with horror

the cruel and unrelenting fury with which they goad the soul, and with

what an imperious and irresistible voice they command obedience to their

inclination.

The passion of love, in particular, acts with much greater force upon the

mind that endeavors to escape from its effects by retirement, than it

does when it is either resisted or indulged.

Retirement, under such circumstances, is a childish expedient; it is

expecting to achieve that, by means of a fearful flight, which it is

frequently too much for the courage and the constancy of heroes to

subdue. Retirement is the very nest and harbor of this powerful passion.

How many abandon the gay and jovial circles of the world, renounce even

the most calm and satisfactory delights of friendship, and quit, without

a sigh, the most delicious and highest seasoned pleasures of society, to

seek in retirement the superior joys of love! a passion in whose high

and tender delights the insolence of power, the treachery of friendship,

and the most vindictive malice, is immediately forgot. It is a passion,

when pure, that can never experience the least decay; no course of

time, no change of place, no alteration of circumstances, can erase or

lessen the ideas of that bliss which it has once imprinted on the heart.

Its characters are indelible. Solitude, in its most charming state,

and surrounded by its amplest, powers, affords no resource against its

anxieties, its jealous fears, its tender alarms, its soft sorrows, or its

inspiringly tumultuous joys. The bosom that is once deeply wounded by the

barbed dart of real love, seldom recovers its tranquillity, but enjoys,

if happy, the highest of human delights; and if miserable, the deepest

of human torments. But, although the love-sick shepherd fills the lonely

vallies, and the verdant groves, with the softest sighs, or severest

sorrows, and the cells of the monasteries and convents resound with heavy

groans and deep-toned curses against the malignity of this passion,

solitude may perhaps, for a while suspend, if it cannot extinguish its

fury. Of the truth of this observation, the history of those unfortunate,

but real lovers, Abelard and Eloisa, furnishes a memorable instance.

In the twelfth century, and while Louis the Gross filled the throne

of France, was born in the retired village of Palais, in Brittany, the

celebrated Peter Abelard. Nature had lavished the highest perfections

both on his person and his mind: a liberal education improved to their

utmost possible extent the gifts of nature; and he became in a few years

the most learned, elegant, and polite gentleman of his age and country.

Philosophy and divinity were his favorite studies: and lest the affairs

of the world should prevent him from becoming a proficient in them,

he surrendered his birthright to his younger brethren, and travelled

to Paris, in order to cultivate his mind under that great professor,

William des Champeaux. The eminence he attained as a professor, while

it procured him the esteem of the rational and discerning, excited the

envy of his rivals. But, beside his uncommon merit as a scholar, he

possessed a greatness of soul which nothing could subdue. He looked

upon riches and grandeur with contempt; and his only ambition was to

render his name famous among learned men, and to acquire the reputation

of the greatest doctor of his age. But when he had attained his seven

and twentieth year of age, all his philosophy could not guard him

against the shafts of love. Not far from the place where Abelard read

his lectures, lived a canon of the church of Notre Dame, named Fulbert,

whose niece, the celebrated Eloisa, had been educated under his own eye

with the greatest care and attention. Her person was well proportioned,

her features regular, her eyes sparkling, her lips vermilion and well

formed, her complexion animated, her air fine, and her aspect sweet and

agreeable. She possessed a surprising quickness of wit, an incredible

memory, and a considerable share of learning, joined with great humility

and tenderness of disposition: and all these accomplishments were

attended with something so graceful and moving, that it was impossible

for those who saw her not to love her. The eye of Abelard was charmed,

and his whole soul intoxicated in the passion of love, the moment he

beheld and conversed with this extraordinary woman; and he laid aside

all other engagements to attend to his passion. He was deaf to the calls

both reason and philosophy, and thought of nothing but her company and

conversation. An opportunity, fortunate for his love, but fatal to his

happiness, soon occurred. Fulbert, whose affection for his niece was

unbounded, willing to improve to the highest degree the excellency of

those talents which nature had so bountifully bestowed on her, engaged

Abelard as her preceptor, and received him in that character into his

house. A mutual passion strongly infused itself into the hearts of both

pupil and preceptor. She consented to become his mistress, but, for a

long time, refused to become his wife. The secret of their loves could

not remain long concealed from the eyes of Fulbert, and the lover was

dismissed from his house: but Eloisa flew with rapture to his arms, and

was placed under the protection of his sister, where she remained; until,

from the cruel vengeance which her uncle exercised on the unfortunate

Abelard, she was induced at his request to enter into the convent of

Argenteuil, and he into the monastery of St. Gildas. In this cloister,

the base of which was washed by the waves of a sea less turbulent

than the passions which disturbed his soul, the unfortunate Abelard,

endeavored by the exercises of religion and study, to obliterate all

remembrance of his love; but his virtue was too feeble for the great

attempt. A course of many years, however, had passed in penitence and

mortification, without any communication between them, and further time

might possibly have calmed in a still greater degree the violence of

their feelings; but a letter which Abelard wrote to his friend Philintus,

in order to comfort him under some affliction which had befallen him, in

which he related his affection for Eloisa with great tenderness, fell

into her hands, and induced her to break through the silence which had

so long prevailed, by writing to him a letter, the contents of which

revived in his mind all the former furies of his passion. Time, absence,

solitude, and prayer, had in no degree diminished the amiable tenderness

of the still lovely Eloisa, or augmented the fortitude of the unfortunate

Abelard. The composing influence of religion seems to have made an

earlier impression upon his feelings than it did upon those of Eloisa;

but he continually counteracted its effects, by comparing his former

felicity with his present torments; and he answered Eloisa’s letter, not

as a moral preceptor, or holy confessor, but as a still fond and adoring

lover; as a man whose wounded feelings were in some degree alleviated by

a recollection of his former joys; and who could only console the sorrows

of his mistress, by avowing an equal tenderness, and confessing the

anguish with which their separation rent his soul. The walls of Paraclete

resounded his sighs less frequently, and re-echoed less fervently with

his sorrows, than those of St. Gildas; for his continued solitude, so

far from affording him relief, had administered an aggravating medicine

to his disease; and afforded that vulture, grief, greater leisure to

tear and prey upon his disordered heart. “Religion,” says he, “commands

me to pursue virtue since I have nothing to hope for from love; but

love still asserts its dominion in my fancy, and entertains itself with

past pleasures; memory supplies the place of a mistress. Piety and duty

are not always the fruits of retirement. Even in deserts, when the dew

of heaven falls not on us, we love what we ought no longer to love.

The passions, stirred up by solitude, fill those regions of death and

silence; and it is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed

there, and that God only is loved and served.”

The letters of Eloisa were soft, gentle, and endearing; but they breathed

the warmest language of tenderness and unconquerable passion. “I have

your picture,” says she, “in my room. I never pass by it without stopping

to look at it; and yet when you were present with me, I scarce even

cast my eyes upon it. If a picture, which is but a mute representation

of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire?

Letters have souls; they have in them all that force which expresses the

transports of the heart: they have all the fire of our passions; they

can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present; they

have all the softness and delicacy of speech, and sometimes a boldness

of expression even beyond it. We may write to each other; so innocent a

pleasure is not forbidden us. Let us not lose, through negligence, the

only happiness which is left to us, and the only one perhaps, which the

malice of our enemies can never ravish from us. I shall read that you

are my husband, and you shall see me address you as a wife. In spite

of all your misfortunes, you may be what you please in your letters.

Letters were first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as

myself. Having lost the pleasure of seeing you, I shall compensate this

loss by the satisfaction I shall find in your writings: there I shall

read your most secret thoughts: I shall carry them always about me; I

shall kiss them every moment. If you can be capable of jealousy, let it

be for the fond curiosity I shall bestow on your letters, and envy only

the happiness of those rivals. That writing may be no trouble to you,

write always to me carelessly and without study: I had rather read the

dictates of the heart than of the brain. I cannot live, if you do not

tell me you always love me. You cannot but remember, (for what do not

lovers remember?) with what pleasure I have passed whole days in hearing

you discourse; how, when you was absent, I shut myself up from every one

to write to you; how uneasy I was till my letter had come to your hands;

what artful management was required to engage confidants. This detail,

perhaps, surprises you, and you are in pain for what will follow: but

I am no longer ashamed that my passion has had no bounds for you; for

I have done more than all this: I have hated myself that I might love

you. I came hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that I

might make you live quiet and easy. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love

perfectly disengaged from the commerce of the senses, could have produced

such effects. Vice never inspires any thing like this. How did I deceive

myself with the hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the

veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your laws! For, in being

professed, I vowed no more than to be yours only; and I obliged myself

voluntarily to a confinement in which you denied to place me. Death only

can make me leave the place where you have fixed me; and then too my

ashes shall rest here, and wait for yours, in order to show my obedience

and devotedness to you to the latest moment possible.”

Abelard, while he strove, in his reply, to adhere to the dictates of

reason, betrayed the lurking tenderness of his heart. “Deliver yourself,

Eloisa,” says he, “from the shameful remains of a passion which has

taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for any other than

God is an adultery. If you could see me here, pale, meagre, melancholy,

surrounded by a band of persecuting monks, who feel my reputation for

learning as a reproach of their stupidity and ignorance, my emaciated

figure as a slander on their gross and sensual corpulency, and my prayers

as an example for their reformation, what would you say to the unmanly

sighs, and unavailing tears, by which they are deceived? Alas! I am bowed

down by the oppressive weight of love, rather than contrition for past

offences. Oh, my Eloisa, pity me, and endeavor to free my laboring soul

from its captivity! If your vocation be, as you say, my wish, deprive me

not of the merit of it by your continual inquietudes: tell me that you

will honor the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God

that you may be delivered from your frailties. Love him, if you would

advance in virtue. Be not uneasy in the cloister, for it is the dwelling

of saints; embrace your bands, they are the chains of Jesus, and he

will lighten them, and bear with you, if you bear them with humility

and repentance. Consider me no more, I entreat you, as a founder, or as

a person in any way deserving your esteem; for your encomiums do but

ill agree with the multiplying weakness of my heart. I am a miserable

sinner, prostrate before my Judge; and when the rays of grace break on my

troubled soul, I press the earth with my lips, and mingle my sighs and

tears in the dust. Couldest thou survey thy wretched lover thus lost and

forlorn, thou wouldest no longer solicit his affection. The tenderness of

thy heart would not permit thee to interpose an earthly passion, which

can only tend to deprive him of all hopes of heavenly grace and future

comfort. Thou wouldest not wish to be the object of sighs and tears,

which ought to be directed to God alone. Canst thou, my Eloisa, become

the confederate of my evil genius, and be the instrument to promote sin’s

yet unfinished conquest? What, alas! couldest thou not achieve with a

heart, the weaknesses of which you so well know? But, oh! let me conjure

you, by all the sacred ties, to forget for ever the wretched Abelard, and

thereby contribute to his salvation. Let me entreat you by our former

joys, and by our now common misfortunes, not to abet my destruction. The

highest affection you can now show me, is to hide your tenderness from my

view and to renounce me for ever. Oh, Eloisa! be devoted to God alone;

for I here release you from all engagements to me.”

The conflict between love and religion tore the soul of Eloisa with pangs

far more violent and destructive. There is scarcely a line of her reply

to Abelard, that does not show the dangerous influence which solitude had

given to the concealed, but unsmothered, passion that glowed within her

breast. “Veiled as I am,” she exclaims, “behold in what a disorder you

have plunged me! How difficult it is to fight always for duty against

inclination! I know the obligation which this sacred veil has imposed

on me; but feel more strongly the power which a long and habitual

passion has gained over my heart. I am the victim of almighty love: my

passion troubles my mind, and disorders my senses. My soul is sometimes

influenced by the sentiments of piety which my reflections inspire, but

the next moment I yield myself up to the tenderness of my feelings,

and to the suggestions of my affection. My imagination riots with wild

excursion in the scenes of past delights. I disclose to you one moment

what I would not have told you a moment before. I resolve no longer

to love you; I consider the solemnity of the vow I have made, and the

awfulness of the veil I have taken; but there arises, unexpectedly, from

the bottom of my heart, a passion which triumphs over all these notions,

and, while it darkens my reason, destroys my devotion. You reign in all

the close and inward retreats of my soul; and I know not how nor where

to attack you with any prospect of success. When I endeavor to break the

chains which bind me so closely to you, I only deceive myself, and all

my efforts serve only to confirm my captivity, and to rivet our hearts

more firmly to each other. Oh! for pity’s sake, comply with my request;

and endeavor by this means, to make me renounce my desires, by showing

me the obligation I am under to renounce you. If you are still a lover,

or a father, oh! help a mistress, and give comfort to the distraction

of an afflicted child. Surely these dear and tender names will excite

the emotion either of pity or of love. Gratify my request; only continue

to write to me, and I shall continue to perform the hard duties of my

station without profaning that character which my love for you induced

me to assume. Under your advice and admonition I shall willingly humble

myself, and submit with penitence and resignation to the wonderful

providence of God, who does all things for our sanctification; who, by

his grace purifies all that is vicious and corrupt in our natures; and,

by the inconceivable riches of his mercy, draws us to himself against

our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to discern the greatness of

that bounty which at first we are incapable of understanding. Virtue

is too amiable not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and vice

too hideous not to be avoided when you show her deformities. When you

are pleased, every thing seems lovely to me. Nothing is frightful

or difficult when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone, and

unsupported by you; and therefore it depends on you alone that I may be

such as you desire. Oh! that you had not so powerful an influence over

all my soul! It is your fears, surely, that make you thus deaf to my

entreaties, and negligent of my desires: but what is there for you to

fear? When we lived happily together you might have doubted whether it

was pleasure or affection that united me to you; but the place from which

I now indite my lamentations must have removed that idea, if it ever

could find a place in your mind. Even within these gloomy walls, my heart

springs toward you with more affection than it felt, if possible, in the

gay and glittering world. Had pleasure been my guide, the world would

have been the theatre of my joys. Two and twenty years only of my life

had worn away, when the lover on whom my soul doated was cruelly torn

from my arms; and at that age female charms are not generally despised;

but, instead of seeking to indulge the pleasures of youth, your Eloisa,

when deprived of thee, renounced the world, suppressed the emotions of

sense, at a time when the pulses beat with the warmest ardor, and buried

herself within the cold and cheerless region of the cloister. To you she

consecrated the flower of her charms; to you she now devotes the poor

remains of faded beauty; and dedicates to heaven and to you, her tedious

days and widowed nights in solitude and sorrow.”

The passion, alas! which Eloisa thus fondly nourished in her bosom, like

an adder, to goad and sting her peace of mind, was very little of a

spiritual nature; and the walls of Paraclete only re-echoed more fervent

sighs than she had before breathed, and witnessed a more abundant flow

of tears than she had shed in the cells of Argenteuil, over the memory

of departed joys with her beloved Abelard. Her letters, indeed, show

with what toilsome but ineffectual anxiety she endeavored to chasten her

mind, and support her fainting virtue, as well by her own reasoning and

reflection, as by his counsels and exhortations; but the passion had

tenaciously rooted itself at the very bottom of her heart; and it was

not until the close of life that she was able to repress the transports

of her imagination, and subdue the wild sallies of her fond and fertile

fancy. Personally separated from each other, she indulged a notion that

her love could not be otherwise than pure and spiritual; but there are

many parts of letters which show how much she was deceived by this idea;

for in all the fancied chastity of their tender and too ardent loves,

“Back thro’ the pleasing maze of sense she ran,

And felt within the slave of love and man.”

The wild and extravagant excesses to which the fancy and the feelings

of Eloisa were carried, was not occasioned merely by the warm impulses

of unchecked nature; but were forced, to the injury of virtue, and the

distraction of reason, by the rank hot bed of monastic solitude. The

story of these celebrated lovers, when calmly examined, and properly

understood, proves how dangerous it is to recede entirely from the

pleasures and occupations of social life, and how deeply the imagination

may be corrupted, and the passions inflamed, during a splenetic and

ill-prepared retirement from the world. The frenzies which follow

disappointed love, are of all others the most likely to settle into

habits of the deepest melancholy. The finest sensibilities of the heart,

the purest tenderness of the soul, when joined with a warm constitution,

and an ardent imagination, experience from interruption and control the

highest possible state of exasperation. Solitude confirms the feelings

such a situation creates; and the passions and inclinations of a person

laboring under such impressions are more likely to be corrupted and

inflamed by the leisure of retirement, than they would be even by

engaging in all the lazy opulence and wanton plenty of a debauched

metropolis.

The affection which Petrarch entertained for Laura was refined, elevated,

and virtuous, and differed, in almost every ingredient of it, from

the luxurious fondness of the unfortunate Eloisa; but circumstances

separated him from the beloved object; and he labored during many years

of his life, under the oppression of that grievous melancholy which

disappointment uniformly inflicts. He first beheld her as she was going

to the church of the monastery of St. Claire. She was dressed in green,

and her gown was embroidered with violets. Her face, her air, her gait,

appeared something more than mortal. Her person was delicate, her eyes

tender and sparkling, and her eyebrows black as ebony. Golden locks waved

over her shoulders whiter than snow, and the ringlets were woven by the

fingers of love. Her neck was well formed, and her complexion animated

by the tints of nature, which art vainly attempts to imitate. When she

opened her mouth, you perceived the beauty of pearls, and the sweetness

of roses. She was full of graces. Nothing was so soft as her looks, so

modest as her carriage, so touching as the sound of her voice. An air

of gayety and tenderness breathed around her; but so pure and happily

tempered, as to inspire every beholder with the sentiments of virtue;

for she was chaste as the spangled dewdrop on the thorn. Such was the

description given of this divine creature by her enslaved lover. But,

unfortunately for his happiness, she was at this time married to Hugues

de Sade, whose family was originally of Avignon, and held the first

offices there. Notwithstanding the sufferings he underwent from the

natural agitation of an affection so tender as that which now engrossed

his soul, he owns that Laura behaved to him with kindness so long as he

concealed his passion; but when she discovered that he was captivated

with her charms, she treated him with great severity; avoiding every

place it was likely he would frequent, and concealing her face under a

large veil whenever they accidentally met. The whole soul of Petrarch was

overthrown by this disastrous passion; and he felt all the visitation

of unfortunate love as grievously as if it had been founded upon less

virtuous principles. He endeavored to calm and tranquillize the troubles

of his breast by retiring to the celebrated solitude of Vaucluse, a

place in which nature delighted to appear under a form the most singular

and romantic; “But, alas!” says he, “I knew not what I was doing. The

resource was ill suited to the safety I sought. Solitude was incapable

of mitigating the severity of my sorrows. The griefs that hung around

my heart, consumed me like a devouring flame. I had no means of flying

from their attacks. I was alone, without consolation, and in the deepest

distress, without even the counsel of a friend to assist me. Melancholy

and despair shot their poisoned arrows against my defenceless breast, and

I filled the unsoothing and romantic vale with my sighs and lamentations.

The muse indeed, conveyed my sufferings to the world; but while the poet

was praised, the unhappy lover remained unpitied and forlorn.”

The love which inspired the lays of Petrarch was a pure and perfect

passion of the heart; and his sufferings were rendered peculiarly

poignant by a melancholy sense of the impossibility of ever being united

with the object of it; but the love of Abelard and Eloisa was a furious

heat of wild desire. This passion flows clear or muddied, peaceful or

violent, in proportion to the sources from which it springs. When it

arises from pure and unpolluted sources, its stream is clear, peaceful,

and surrounded with delights: but when its source is foul, and its

course improperly directed, it foams and rages, overswells its banks,

and destroys the scenes which nature intended it to fertilize and adorn.

The different effects produced by the different kinds of this powerful

passion, have, on observing how differently the character of the same

person appears when influenced by the one or the other of them, given

rise to an idea that the human species are possessed of two souls; the

one leading to vice, and the other conducting to virtue. A celebrated

philosopher has illustrated this notion by the following story:

A virtuous young prince, of an heroic soul, capable of love and

friendship, made war upon a tyrant, who was in every respect his reverse.

It was the happiness of our prince to be as great a conqueror by his

clemency and bounty, as by his arms and military virtue. Already he had

won over to his party several potentates and princes, who had before

been subject to the tyrant. Among those who still adhered to the enemy

there was a prince, who, having all the advantages of person and merit,

had lately been made happy in the possession and mutual love of the most

beautiful princess in the world. It happened that the occasion of the war

called the new married prince to a distance from his beloved princess.

He left her secure as he thought, in a strong castle, far within the

country; but, in his absence, the place was taken by surprise, and the

princess brought a captive to the quarters of the heroic prince. There

was in the camp a young nobleman the favorite of the prince; one who

had been educated with him, and was still treated by him with perfect

familiarity. Him he immediately sent for, and with strict injunctions,

committed the captive princess to his charge; resolving she should be

treated with that respect which was due to her rank and merit. It was the

same young lord who had discovered her disguised among the prisoners,

and learnt her story; the particulars of which he now related to the

prince. He spoke in ecstacy on this occasion; telling the prince how

beautiful she appeared even in the midst of sorrow; and though disguised

under the meanest habit, yet how distinguished by her air and manner from

every other beauty of her sex. But what appeared strange to our young

nobleman was, that the prince, during this whole relation, discovered

not the least intention of seeing the lady, or satisfying that curiosity

which seemed so natural on such an occasion. He pressed him, but without

success. “Not see her, sir!” said he wondering, “when she is so much

handsomer than any woman you have yet seen!” “For that very reason,”

replied the prince, “I would rather decline the interview; for should I,

upon this bare report of her beauty, be so charmed as to make the first

visit at this urgent time of business, I may upon sight, with better

reason, be induced, perhaps, to visit her when I am more at leisure;

and so again and again, until at last I may have no leisure left for my

affairs.” “Would you, sir, persuade me then,” said the young nobleman,

smiling, “that a fair face can have such power as to force the will

itself, and constrain a man in any respect to act contrary to what he

thinks becoming him? Are we to hearken to the poets, in what they tell

us of that incendiary love and his irresistible flames? A real flame, we

see, burns all alike; but that imaginary one of beauty hurts only those

that are consenting. It affects no otherwise than as we ourselves are

pleased to allow it. In many cases we absolutely command it, as when

relation and consanguinity are in the nearest degree. Authority and law

we see can master it; but it would be vain, as well as unjust, for any

law to intermeddle or prescribe, was not the case voluntary, and our

will entirely free.” “How comes it then,” replied the prince, “that if

we are thus masters of our choice, and free at first to admire and love

where we approve, we cannot afterward as well cease to love whenever we

see cause? This latter liberty you will hardly defend; for I doubt not

you have heard of many who, though they were used to set the highest

value on liberty before they loved, yet, afterward, were necessitated

to serve in the most abject manner, finding themselves constrained,

and bound by a stronger chain than any of iron or of adamant.” “Such

wretches,” replied the youth, “I have often heard complain, who, if you

will believe them, are wretched indeed, without means or power to help

themselves. You may hear them in the same manner complain grievously of

life itself; but though there are doors enough at which to go out of

life, they find it convenient to keep still where they are. They are the

very same pretenders who, through this plea of irresistible necessity,

make bold with what is another’s, and attempt unlawful beds; but the law,

I perceive, makes bold with them in its turn, as with other invaders

of property. Neither is it your custom, sir, to pardon such offences.

So that beauty itself, you must allow, is innocent and harmless, and

cannot compel any one to do amiss. The debauched compel themselves, and

unjustly charge their guilt on love. They who are honest and just can

admire and love whatever is beautiful, without offering at any thing

beyond what is allowed. How then is it possible, sir, that one of your

virtue should be in pain on any such account, or fear such a temptation?

You see, sir, I am sound and whole after having beheld the princess. I

have conversed with her; I have admired her in the highest degree; yet

I am myself still, and in my duty, and shall be ever in the same manner

at your command.” “It is well,” replied the prince; “keep yourself so:

be ever the same man, and look to your fair charge carefully, as becomes

you; for it may so happen, in the present situation of the war that

this beautiful captive may stand us in good stead.” The young nobleman

then departed to execute his commission; and immediately took such care

of the captive princess that she seemed as perfectly obeyed, and had

every thing which belonged to her in as great splendor as in her own

principality, and in the height of her fortune. He found her in every

respect deserving, and saw in her a generosity of soul exceeding even her

other charms. His studies to oblige her and to soften her distress, made

her, in return, desirous to express her gratitude. He soon discovered the

feelings of her mind; for she showed, on every occasion, a real concern

for his interest; and when he happened to fall ill, she took such tender

care of him herself, and by her servants, that he seemed to owe his

recovery entirely to her friendship. From these beginnings, insensibly,

and by natural degrees, as may easily be conceived, the youth fell

desperately in love. At first he offered not to make the least mention

of his passion to the princess, for he scarce dared believe it himself.

But time, and the increasing ardor of his passion, subdued his fears,

and she received his declaration with an unaffected trouble, and real

concern. She reasoned with him as a friend, and endeavored to persuade

him to subdue so improper and extravagant a flame. But in a short time

he became outrageous, and talked to her of _force_. The princess was

alarmed by his audacity, and immediately sent to the prince to implore

his protection. The prince received the information with the appearance

of more than ordinary attention; sent instantly for one of his first

ministers, and directed him to return with the princess’ domestic, and

tell the young nobleman that _force_ was not to be used to such a lady;

but that he might use _persuasion_, if he thought it was proper so to

do. The minister, who was of course the inveterate enemy of his prince’s

favorite, aggravated the message, inveighed publicly against the young

nobleman for the grossness of his misconduct, and even reproached him to

his face with having been a traitor to the confidence of his prince, and

a disgrace to his nation. The minister, in short, conveyed the message

of his master in such virulent and angry terms, that the youth looked on

his case as desperate; fell into the deepest melancholy; and prepared

himself for that fate which he was conscious he well deserved. While he

was thus impressed with a sense of his misconduct, and the danger to

which it had exposed him, the prince commanded him to attend a private

audience. The youth entered the closet of the prince covered with the

deepest confusion. “I find,” said he, “that I am now become dreadful to

you indeed, since you can neither see me without shame, nor imagine me

to be without resentment. But away with all these thoughts from this

time forward! I know how much you have suffered on this occasion. I know

the power of love; and am no otherwise safe myself, than by keeping out

of the way of beauty. I alone am to blame; for it was I who unhappily

matched you with that unequal adversary; who gave you that impracticable

task; who imposed on you that hard adventure, which no one yet was ever

strong enough to accomplish.” “In this, sir, as in all else,” replied the

youth, “you express that goodness which is so natural to you. You have

compassion, and can allow for human frailties; but the rest of mankind

will never cease to upbraid me: nor shall I ever be forgiven, even were I

able ever to forgive myself. I am reproached by my nearest friends; and I

must be odious to all mankind wherever I am known. The least punishment

I can think due to me is banishment for ever from your presence; for I

am no longer worthy of being called your friend.” “You must not think of

banishing yourself for ever,” replied the prince: “but trust me, if you

will retire only for a while, I shall so order matters, that you shall

return with the applause even of those who are now your enemies, when

they find what a considerable service you shall have rendered both to

them and me.” Such a hint was sufficient to revive the spirits of the

despairing youth. He was transported to think that his misfortunes could

be turned in any way to the advantage of his prince. He entered with

joy into the scheme his royal friend had contrived for the purpose of

restoring him to his former fame and happiness, and appeared eager to

depart and execute the directions that were given to him. “Can you then,”

said the prince, “resolve to quit the charming princess?” “O, sir,”

replied the youth, with tears in his eyes, “I am now well satisfied that

I have in reality within me two distinct separate souls. This lesson of

philosophy I have learnt from that villanous sophister love; for it is

impossible to believe that, having one and the same soul, it should be

actually both good and bad; passionate for virtue and vice, desirous of

contraries. No; there must of necessity be two; and when the good soul

prevails, we are happy; but when the bad prevails, we are miserable. Such

was my case. Lately the ill soul was wholly master, and I was miserable;

but now the good prevails, by your assistance, and I am plainly a new

creature, with quite another apprehension, another reason, and another

will.”

He who would be master of his appetites, must not only avoid temptation,

but vigilantly restrain the earliest shoots of fancy, and destroy the

first blooms of a warm imagination. It is the very nature of confidence

to be always in danger. To permit the mind to riot in scenes of fancied

delights, under an idea that reason will be able to extinguish the

flames of desire, is to nurse and foster the sensual appetites, which,

when guided by the cool and temperate voice of nature alone, are seldom

raised to an improper height. The natural current of the blood, even in

the warmest constitutions, and under the most torrid zone, would keep an

even, temperate course, were it not accelerated by such incentives. Youth

indeed despises this species of reasoning, and imputes it to the sickness

of satiety, or the coldness of old age. I have, however, in general,

observed, that those who seek these incitements to what they improperly

call love, possess a rayless eye, a hollow cheek, a palsied hand, a

pallid countenance; and these symptoms of faded splendour and withered

strength, unquestionably prove that they have not consulted nature in

their gay pursuits; for nature has not planted any propensities in the

human frame which lead it to early ruin, or premature decay. The blame

which is so unjustly thrown upon temperament and constitution, belongs

to the indulgence of false and clamorous passions, those which sensual

fancies, and lascivious ideas have raised to the destruction of chastity

and health.

Monastic institutions produce, in this respect, incalculable mischiefs.

The sexes, whom these religious prisons seclude from the free and

unconfined intercourses of society, suffer their imaginations to riot

without restraint or discipline, in proportion to the violence imposed

on their actions. A thousand boyish fancies, eager appetites and warm

desires, are perpetually playing truant, and the chastity of the soul

is corrupted. To effect the conquest of the passion of love, it is

absolutely necessary that the evil suggestions of the imagination should

be first silenced; and he who succeeds in quelling the insurrections

of that turbulent inmate, or in quieting its commotions, achieves an

enterprise at once difficult and glorious. The holy Jerome checked the

progress of many disorderly passions which he found rising in his breast;

but the passion of love resisted all his opposition, and followed him,

with increasing fury, even into the frightful cavern to which he retired

to implore, in humble prayer and solitary abstraction, the mercies of

his God. The solitude, however remote, to which the demon of sensuality

is admitted, is soon crowded with legions of tormenting fiends. John,

the anchorite of the deserts of Thebais, wisely addressed his solitary

brethren, “If there be any among you who in his pride, conceives that

he has entirely renounced the devil and all his works, he should learn

that it is not sufficient to have done this merely by his lips, by having

resigned his worldly dignities, and by dividing his possessions among

the poor; for, unless he has also abandoned his sensual appetites, his

salvation cannot be secure. It is only by purifying our bosoms from the

pernicious influence of this master passion, that we can ever hope to

counteract the machinations of satan, and to guard our hearts from his

dangerous practices. Sin always introduces itself under the guidance

of some guilty passion; some fond desire; some pleasing inclination,

which we willingly indulge, and by that means suffer the enemy of peace

to establish his unruly dominion in our souls. Then tranquillity and

real happiness quit their abode in our hearts, and all is uproar and

anarchy within. This must be the fate of all who permit an evil spirit

to seat itself on the throne of their hearts, and to scatter around

the poisonous seeds of wild desire and vicious inclinations.” But love

once indulged in bright and rapturous fancies, fills the mind with

such high and transporting ideas of supreme bliss, that the powers

of reason are seldom, if ever, capable of making head against its

fascinations. The hermit and the monk, who, from the nature of their

situations, cannot taste its real charms, ought, if it were for that

reason alone, to stifle at their birth the earliest emotions of this

inspiring passion; for the indulgence of it must prove fatal to the

virtue, and of course destructive to the peace of every recluse. The

impossibility that such characters can listen with any propriety to

the dictates of this delightful passion, shows in the strongest manner

the impolicy and absurdity of those institutions, on the members of

which celibacy is enjoined. The happiness of every individual, as well

as the civil and religious interests of society, are best promoted by

inducing the endearments of sense to improve the sympathies, tenderness,

and affections of the human heart. But these blessings are denied to

the solitary fanatic, who is condemned to endure the suppression of

his passions, and prevented from indulging without endangering his

principles, both the desires of sense, and the dreams of fancy. He

cannot form that delightful union of the sexes, where sentiments of

admiration are increased by prospects of personal advantage; where

private enjoyment arises from a sense of mutual merit; and the warmest

beams of love are tempered by the refreshing gales of friendship. The

grosser parts of this innate and glowing passion can alone occupy his

fancy; and the sentiments it instils, instead of refining his desires,

and meliorating his affections, tend, through the operation of his soul

and corrupted imagination, to render his appetites still more depraved.

He is as ignorant of its benefits as he is of its chaste and dignified

pleasures; and totally unacquainted with its fine sensibilities, and

varied emotions, his bosom burns with the most violent rage; his mind

wallows in images of sensuality; and his temper frets itself, by unjustly

accusing the tempter as the author of his misery. If the luxurious

cogitations of such a character were dissipated by the pleasures and

pursuits of busy life; if the violence of his passions were checked by

laborious exercises; and if habits of rational study enabled him to vary

the uniformity of retirement, and to substitute the excursions of mental

curiosity, and moral reflections, instead of that perpetual recurrence

of animal desire by which he is infected, the danger we have described

would certainly be reduced; but without such aids, his self-denials, his

penitence, his prayers, and all the austere discipline of the monkish

and ascetic school, will be ineffectual. Celibacy, indeed, instead of

assisting, as their disciples mistakingly conceive, to clear the soul

from its earthly impurities, and to raise it to divine brightness and

sublimity, drags it down to the basest appetites and lowest desires.

But matrimony, or that suitable and appropriate union of the sexes

which prevails under different circumstances, according to the manner

and custom of different societies, leads, when properly formed, to the

highest goal of human bliss.

The mischievous effects which the celibacy and solitude of monastic

institutions produce on that passion which arises so spontaneously

between the sexes in the human heart, will appear unavoidable, when it

is considered how absurdly the founders of these religious retreats have

frequently endeavored to guard against the danger. The partitions which

divide virtues from their opposite vices are so slender and conjoined,

that we scarcely reach the limits of the one before we enter to a certain

degree, the confines of the other. How ridiculous, therefore, is it

to conceive, that frequent meditation on forbidden pleasures, should

be at all likely to eradicate impure ideas from the mind. And yet the

Egyptian monastics were enjoined to have these rules constantly in their

contemplation: first, that their bosoms must remain unagitated by the

thoughts of love; that they should never permit their fancies to loiter

on voluptuous images; that female beauty, in its fairest form, and most

glowing charms, should be incapable of exciting in their hearts the least

sensation; and that, even during the hours of sleep, their minds should

continue untainted by such impure affections. The chastity of these

solitary beings was, on some occasions, actually tried by experiment; but

the consequences which resulted from such irrational discipline, were

directly the reverse of those it was intended to produce. The imagination

was vitiated, and the inclination rendered so corrupt, that neither

the examples nor the precepts of the more enlightened ages were able

to correct their manners, or reclaim them from the machinations of the

unclean spirit. Numberless indeed, and horrid, are the instances recorded

by Ruffinus, and other writers, of the perversions of all sense and

reason, of all delicacy and refinement, of all virtue and true holiness,

which prevailed in the ascetic solitudes of every description, while the

nuptial state was held incompatible with the duties of religion, and the

sexes separated from each other, that they might more piously, and with

less interruption, follow its dictates. Some of the fathers of the church

defined female celibacy to be the only means of living a chaste and godly

life amidst the impurities of a sinful world, and regaining, during the

perdition of gross mortality, the resemblance of the soul’s celestial

origin. The holy, happy tie of matrimony they considered as a cloak to

the indulgence of impure desires, and launched their anathemas against it

as an hateful institution. Even the eloquent and pious Chrysostom says,

“that a double purpose was intended to be attained by the institution of

marriage, _viz._ the propagation of the species, and the gratification

of sexual affection; but that, as population had sufficiently covered

the face of the earth, the first had become no longer necessary; and

that it was the duty of the sexes rather to conquer their affections

by abstinence and prayer, than indulge them under so thin a disguise.”

The human soul, he admits, must, in a state of celibacy, subsist under

a perpetual warfare and the faculties be in continual ferment; but

contends, that piety exists in proportion to the difficulties which the

sufferer surmounts. The holy fathers seem, from the whole strain of

their exhortations and reasonings, to have considered female chastity

in a very serious point of view; and there can be no doubt but that it

is the brightest jewel and most becoming ornament of the sex; but these

reverend teachers were so blinded by their zeal, that they lost all

sight of nature, and mistakingly conceived that the Great Creator had

planted affections in our hearts, and passions in our breasts, only to

try our tempers in suppressing their turbulence, rather than promote

our happiness, and to answer the ends of his creation, by a sober and

rational indulgence of them.

But nature will not be argued out of her rights; and these absurd

doctrines introduced into every monastic institution throughout Europe

a private intercourse, hostile, from its evil example to the interests

both of morality and religion. The nuns of the convent of Argenteuil,

who chose Eloisa for their Abbess, were in all probability, influenced

in their choice by the recollections of her former frailty, and their

knowledge of the present ruling passion of her heart; they meant to

provide the abbey with a superior who, if she were not inclined to

promote, would feel no disposition to interrupt their intrigues. The fact

certainly was, that during the time Eloisa presided over the convent,

the conduct of the nuns was so extremely licentious, that Sugger, abbot

of St. Dennis, complained of their irregularities to Pope Honorius, in

such a manner as to induce his holiness to give the abbot possession of

it; and he immediately expelled the negligent prioress and her intriguing

sisters, and established in their place a monastery of his own order.

Strong suspicions may, perhaps, prevail against the virtue and integrity

of Eloisa’s character, from the dissoluteness which existed in this

society; but she was certainly not included by name in the articles of

accusation which the abbot of St. Dennis transmitted upon this subject

to the court of Rome; and there is every reason to believe that these

irregularities were carefully concealed from her knowledge. When this

lovely victim was presented with the veil, some persons who pitied her

youth, and admired her beauty, represented to her the cruel sacrifice she

would make of herself by accepting it: but she immediately exclaimed, in

the words of Cornelia, after the death of Pompey the great--

“Oh my loved lord! our fatal marriage draws

On thee this doom, and I the guilty cause:

Then while thou go’st th’ extremes of fate to prove,

I’ll share that fate, and expiate thus my love!”

and accepted the fatal present with a constancy not to have been expected

in a woman who had so high a taste for pleasures which she might still

enjoy. It will therefore, be easily conceived, that her distress, on

being ignominiously expelled from this retreat, was exceedingly severe.

She applied to Abelard to procure her some permanent asylum, where

she might have the opportunity of estranging herself from all earthly

weaknesses and passions; and he, by the permission of the bishop of

Troyes, resigned to her the house and the chapel of Paraclete, with its

appendages, where she settled with a few sisters, and became herself the

foundress of a nunnery. Of this monastery she continued the superior

until she died; and whatever her conduct was among the licentious nuns of

Argenteuil, she lived so regular in this her new and last retreat, and

conducted herself with such exemplary prudence, zeal, and piety, that all

her former failings were forgot, her character adored by all who knew

her, and her monastery in a short time enriched with so great a variety

of donations, that she was celebrated as the ablest cultivator of the

virtues of forgiveness and Christian charity then existing. The bishop

of the district behaved to her as if she had been his own daughter; the

neighboring priors and abbots treated her with all the tenderness and

attention of a real sister: and those who were distressed and poor,

revered her as their mother. But all her cares, and all her virtues,

could not protect her against the returning weakness of her heart.

“Solitude,” says she, “is insupportable to a mind that is ill at ease;

its troubles increase in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens

them. Since I have been shut up within these walls, I have done nothing

but weep for our misfortunes: this cloister has resounded with my cries,

and like a wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days

in grief and sighing.”

The useful regulations imposed by the wisdom of St. Benedict upon the

votaries of monastic retirement, were soon neglected. Abstinence and

prayer were succeeded by luxury and impiety. The revenues of the several

orders had, by the increased value of property, become so great, that

they were expended in purchasing a remission of those duties which

their founders had enjoined. The admission of the poor laity relieved

the initiated members from the toil of cultivating the demesne lands,

and produced a system of indolence and laziness. They exchanged their

long fast and unsavory diet, for frequent feasts, and the richest

repasts; substituted indolent pride for laborious humility; and lost

entirely their original piety and virtue. Abelard, indeed, and some few

other abbots of the tenth century, endeavored to restore the ancient

discipline, but they were reviled and persecuted with the most vindictive

malice by their contemporaries. The duke of Brittany, in order to secure

Abelard from the rage with which he was pursued, for exercising qualities

which ought to have procured him admiration and esteem, gave him the

convent of St. Gildas, as an asylum from their hatred. The high character

which this monastery comparatively enjoyed for regularity and good

order, excited a hope that he might there find rest from his vexations,

and consolation for his griefs. But instead of finding it the seat of

wisdom and piety, and the mansion of tranquillity, he discovered the

most dissolute manners and abandoned conduct prevailing in every part of

the convent. His mild and rational attempts to reclaim these disorderly

brethren, were so far from producing the desired effect upon their minds,

that it only provoked their rage, and gave new edge to their malice.

Foiled in their endeavors, by conspiracy and calumny, to dispossess him

of his situation, they attempted, several times at their common repasts,

to infuse poison into his victuals: and at length, dreadful to relate!

actually administered, in the sacramental cup, the poisoned chalice to

his lips, but which he was miraculously prevented from tasting. It is,

indeed, impossible to read the description he has given of his dreadful

situation in this wild and savage community, without shuddering at the

idea how much an irrational solitude tends to corrupt the manners and

deprave the heart. “I live,” says he, in his letter to Philintus, “in a

barbarous country, the language of which I do not understand. I have no

conversation but with the rudest people. My walks are on the inaccessible

shore of a sea which is perpetually stormy. My monks are only known by

their dissoluteness, and living without any rule or order. Ah! Philintus,

were you to see my habitation, you would rather think it a slaughter

house than a convent. The doors and walks are without any ornament except

the heads of wild boars, the antlers of stags, the feet of foxes and the

hides of other animals, which are nailed up against them. The cells are

hung with the skins of victims destroyed in the chase. The monks have not

so much as a bell to wake them, and are only roused from their drowsiness

by the howling of dogs and the croaking of ravens. Nothing disturbs

their laziness or languor but the rude noises of hunting; and their only

alternatives are riot and rest. But I should return my thanks to heaven

if that were their only fault. I endeavor in vain to recall them to their

duty; they all combine against me; and I only expose myself to continual

vexations and dangers. I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hanging

over my head. Sometimes they surround me, and load me with the vilest

abuse; and even when they abandon me, I am still left to my own dreadful

tormenting thoughts.” This single example would be sufficient to prove

the extraordinary dominion which solitude has over the human mind. It

is, indeed, unless it be managed with great good sense, the complete

nursery of mischief. The mind is without those numerous incentives to

action which are continually occurring in the busy world; and nothing

can contribute to produce irregular and disorderly passions more than

the want of some pursuit by which the heart is interested and the mind

employed. The minds of idle persons are always restless; their hearts

never at perfect ease; their spirits continually on the fret; and their

passions goaded to the most unwarrantable excess.

Idleness, even in social life, inflicts the severest torments on the

soul; destroys the repose of individuals; and, when general, frequently

endangers the safety of the state. Timotheus, an Egyptian monk, surnamed

the Cat, a short time after the Eutychian Controversy, in the year

457, felt an ambition to fill the episcopal and patriarchal chair.

The splenetic restlessness which prevailed among the monks in their

several monastic solitudes, seemed to present to his observing eye

proper instruments for the execution of his scheme. He was conscious,

from his profound knowledge of the human character, that if men who

had so long remained in uneasy and dissatisfied indolence, could be

provoked to activity, their zeal would be as turbulent as their former

life had been lazy and supine; and that their dispositions might be

easily turned to the accomplishment of his wishes. The better to effect

his purpose, he clothed himself in a white garment, crept silently in

the dead of night to the cells of his companions, and, through a tube,

which concealed his voice while it magnified the sound of it, hailed

every monk by his name. The sound seemed to convey the voice of heaven

to the superstitious ears of the awakened auditors; and the sagacious

and enterprising trumpeter did not fail to announce himself as an

ambassador of heaven, sent in the name of the Almighty to command the

monks to assemble immediately, to consult on the most likely mode of

deposing the Nestorian heretic Proterus, and of raising the favored

and orthodox Timotheus to the episcopal throne. The idea of being thus

elected to execute this pious rebellion, roused all the sleeping powers

of these solitary and hitherto idle fanatics; they rose tumultuously

at the sacred signal; proclaimed him as a heaven elected patriarch;

solicited him with friendly violence, not to refuse the promised boon;

and burning with all the ardor of expected success, marched, in a

few days under the banner of the imposter, to Alexandria, where they

inspired the members of other monasteries with their own delusion, and

created throughout Egypt the wildest and most tremendous commotions.

The populace caught the religious frenzy, and joined in vast numbers the

monastic rout. Assisted by this desperate rabble, Timotheus proceeded

to the principal church of Alexandria, where he was, by a preconcerted

arrangement, pompously received by two deposed bishops, and ordained the

metropolitan of the whole Egyptian territory. Proterus was astonished

at this sudden irruption, and hurled his anathemas with great art and

dexterity against the impious audacity of the obscure monastic who had

thus dared to depart from the humility of his station, and to invade

with his indolent brethren, the rights of sovereignty; but being well

aware of the fury with which this description of men generally act when

they are once set in motion, and being informed of the vast multitude by

which they had been joined, he thought it prudent to quit his palace, and

to retire to the sacred shelter of the church of St. Quirinus. Heathens

and barbarians had heretofore respected this venerable sanctuary; but,

upon the present occasion, it was incapable of giving safety to its aged

refugee. The furious troops of the holy imposter burst with irresistible

violence through the walls of this consecrated edifice, and with their

daggers drank the blood of the innocent pontiff, even upon that altar,

the very sight of which ought to have paralyzed the hand of guilt. His

surrounding and numerous friends, particularly six ecclesiastics of

great eminence, learning, and piety, shared the fate of their unhappy

master, and were found, when the dreadful massacre was over, clinging

with fondness, in the arms of death, round his mangled body. But it was

necessary for the murderers to calumniate the purity of that life which

they had thus violently and injuriously destroyed. They accordingly

dragged the corpse of this virtuous patriarch to the most public part

of the city, and, after the grossest abuse of his character, and most

scandalous misrepresentation of his conduct, hung it on an elevated

cross, and exposed it to the brutal insults of the misguided and deluded

populace. To complete this unmanly outrage, they at length committed the

torn and mangled remains of this excellent prelate to the flames, and

hurled his ashes, amidst the most opprobrious and insulting epithets,

into the darkened air; exclaiming with horrid imprecations, that the

mortal part of such a wretch was not entitled to the right of sepulchre,

or even the tears of friends. So furious and undaunted, indeed, were

all the oriental monks, when once roused from their monastic lethargy,

that even the soldiers of the Greek emperors cautiously avoided meeting

them in the field. The fury by which they were actuated was so blind,

that the pious Chrysostom, the warmest and most zealous advocate for

monastic institutions, trembled at his approach. This celebrated father

of the church was born in the year 344, of one of the first families of

the city of Antioch, and added new lustre to their fame by his virtues

and his eloquence. Having finished his studies with wonderful success,

under Libanus, the greatest rhetorician of the age, he devoted himself to

the study of the law; but religion having planted itself deeply in his

mind, he quitted all secular concerns, and retired into solitude among

the mountains in the vicinity of the city, where, in the dreary caves, he

devoted two entire years to penitence and prayer. Ill health, however,

obliged him to return to Antioch; he began to preach the Word, and was

soon followed by a host of disciples. The life of this excellent pastor

was an example to his whole flock. He endeavored to drive away the wolves

from the folds, and sent missionaries even into Scythia, to convert its

inhabitants to Christianity. These missions, and his various charities,

required either considerable revenues or the most rigid economy; and

the holy patriarch was contented to live in the extremest poverty, that

he might have the better opportunity of relieving the sufferings of his

fellow creatures. The character and conduct of this virtuous pontiff soon

gained him the hearts of his people, and he set himself earnestly to

reform the many abuses which at this time prevailed at Constantinople.

The severity and vehemence, however, with which he declaimed against

the pride, the luxury, and the rapacity of the great; the zeal with

which he endeavored to reform the vices and misconduct of the clergy;

and the eagerness he discovered for the conversion of heretics, created

him a multitude of enemies; and Eutropius, the favorite of the Emperor

Arcadius; Gainas, the tyrant to whom he had refused protection for the

Arians; Theophilus, of Alexandria, the patron of the Origenists; and

the disciples of Arius, whom he banished from Constantinople, entered

into a conspiracy against him; and an occasion soon happened, which gave

them the opportunity of taking ample vengeance. The intrepid preacher,

convinced that while he declaimed against vice in general, the peculiar

vices which prevailed in the court of the Empress Eudoxia, and the

personal misconduct of the Empress herself, called aloud for his severest

animadversions, he took every opportunity of exposing them to the public

abhorrence. The resentment of the court encouraged the discontent of

the clergy and monks of Constantinople, who had been very severely

disciplined by the zeal of the archbishop. He had condemned from the

pulpit the domestic females of the clergy of Constantinople, who, under

the name of servants or sisters, afforded a perpetual occasion either

of sin or scandal. The silent and solitary ascetics, who had secluded

themselves from the world, were entitled to the warmest appprobation of

Chrysostom; but he despised and stigmatized, as the disgrace of their

holy profession, the crowd of degenerate monks, who from some unworthy

motives of pleasure or profit, so frequently infested the streets of the

metropolis. To the voice of persuasion, the archbishop was obliged to

add the lesson of authority; and in his visitation through the Asiatic

provinces, he deposed thirteen bishops of Lydia and Phrygia; and declared

that a deep corruption of simony and licentiousness had infected the

whole episcopal order. These bishops also entered into the confederacy

above mentioned, and the excellent Chrysostom was studiously represented

as the intolerable tyrant of the eastern church. This ecclesiastical

conspiracy was managed by the archbishop of Alexandria, who, by the

invitation of Eudoxia, landed at Constantinople with a stout body of

Egyptian mariners, to encounter the populace, and a train of dependant

bishops, to secure, by their voices, a majority of a synod. The synod

was convened in the suburbs of Chalcedon, and was called the Oak; in

which Chrysostom, was accused of treason against the empress; rudely

arrested, and driven into exile; from whence, however, he was in two

days recalled; but, upon a repetition of his imputed offences, was again

banished to the remote and desolate town of Cucusus among the ridges

of mount Taurus, in the Lesser Armenia. On his way to this place, he

was detained by sickness at Cesarea, and at length confined to his bed.

The bishop of Cesarea, who had long entertained a secret enmity against

him, unmoved by his fallen fortunes and helpless state, stirred up the

lazy monks of the surrounding monasteries to vengeance against him. The

fury with which they issued from their respective cells was incredible;

like the sleeping powder of the present age, they burst into immediate

conflagration and explosion at the touch of that hand by which they were

fired, and directing their heated animosity against the dying Chrysostom,

surrounded his house and threatened, that if he did not immediately

depart, they would involve it in flames, and bury him in its ruins. The

soldiers of the garrison were called out to protect the life of this

virtuous ecclesiastic; and, on their arrival at the scene of action,

very courteously requested the enraged monks to be quiet and depart; but

the request was treated with contempt and defiance; and it was by the

humane resolution of Chrysostom himself that this tumult was quelled;

for, rather than the blood of his fellow creatures should be shed on

his account, he desired a litter might be procured, into which, in his

almost expiring state, he was roughly laid, and, by his departure from

the city, escaped the fury which thus assailed his life. It is evident,

from these facts, that the irrational solitude of monastic institutions,

particularly that which prevailed in the early ages of Christianity

in the eastern parts of the converted world, instead of rendering the

votaries of it mild, complacent and humane, filled their minds with the

wildest notions, and the most uncharitable and acrimonious passions,

and fostered in their hearts the most dangerous and destructive vices.

It is truly said, by a very elegant writer and profound observer of men

and manners, that monastic institutions unavoidably contract and fetter

the human mind; that the partial attachment of a monk to the interest of

his order, which is often incompatible with that of other citizens, the

habit of implicit obedience to the will of a superior, together with the

frequent return of the wearisome and frivolous duties of the cloister,

debase his faculties, and extinguish that generosity of sentiment and

spirit which qualifies men for thinking and feeling justly, with respect

to what is proper in life and conduct; and that father Paul of Venice

was, perhaps, the only person educated in a cloister, that ever was

altogether superior to its prejudices, or who viewed the transactions of

men, and reasoned concerning the interests of society, with the enlarged

sentiments of a philosopher, with the discernment of a man conversant

in affairs, and with the liberality of a gentleman. Depraved, however,

as this order of men has ever been, it was to their prayers and masses

that all the princes and potentates of more than half the discovered

regions of the earth confided their salvation, and expected from their

intercession, divine favor from the fountain of all goodness and truth.

But the fears which these artful and intriguing ecclesiastics raised

in the weak or guilty minds of their contemporaries, instead of being

quieted by the conciliatory and comforting doctrines of the gospel of

Christ, were converted to the purposes of their own sordid avarice, and

made subservient to the enjoyment of their vices, and the advancement

of their power. They inculcated the notion, that the surest passport to

eternal bliss was to overwhelm them with riches, and to indulge them with

extraordinary privileges; and every haughty noble, or despotic sovereign,

who was anxious to gratify his own wanton pleasures, and capricious

vices, at the expense of his people’s prosperity and happiness,

endeavored to reconcile himself to his offended God, by bribing these

ambitious and greedy monastics to grant them absolution for their deepest

crimes. Their history exhibits, in full view, the melancholy truth, that

their hearts were corrupted by the worst passions that disgrace humanity,

and that the discipline of the convent was seldom productive of a single

virtue. Enthusiasts, indeed, of every description, whose sentiments

and feelings are continually at war with the dictates of nature, and

who renounce all the pleasing sympathies, gentle endearments, kind

connexions, and rational enjoyments of life, are not likely to entertain

any great anxiety for the interest or happiness of others, or to feel the

least commiseration for their sorrows. Occupied by sordid and selfish

pursuits, they must hate and despise a society, to the lively enjoyments

of which they look back with such keen regret. When the mind, alas! has

numbed its sense of social joys, and become a stranger to the delightful

charms of sweet domestic love; when all affection for the world and

its concerns has been studiously expelled from the bosom, and no kind

feeling or social inclination suffered to fill the vacant heart; when

man has separated himself from his species, and has not united his soul

with his Creator, he has lost all power of being happy himself, or of

communicating happiness to others.

The bishop exceeded the inferior clergy in every kind of profligacy,

as much as in opulence and power; and, of course, their superintending

and visitorial authority was not exerted to lessen or restrain the

prevalence of those vices which their evil example contributed so greatly

to increase. Time and chance sometimes produce extraordinary events;

and if a really pious, vigilant, and austere prelate arose amidst the

general dissoluteness of the age, his single effort to reclaim these

solitary ecclesiastics was seldom attended with success. These fathers,

indeed, frequently scrutinized with great minuteness into the practices

of the convents; and as they were not so able to detect the guilt of

incontinency, as some philosophers of the present age pretend to be, by

the lines and features of the face, they proceeded upon evidence less

delicate, perhaps, but certainly more demonstrative and unerring.

The celebrated Boccace has, by his witty and ingenious tales, very

severely satirized the licentiousness and immorality which prevailed

during his time in the Italian monasteries; but, by exposing the

scandalous lives, and lashing the vices, of the monks, nuns, and other

orders of the Catholic clergy, he has been decried as a contemner of

religion, and as an enemy to true piety. Contemporary historians have

also delivered the most disgusting accounts of their intemperance and

debauchery. The frailty, indeed, of the female monastics was even an

article of regular taxation; and the holy father did not disdain to fill

his coffers with the price of their impurities. The frail nun, whether

she had become immured within a convent, or still resided without its

walls, might redeem her lost honor, and be reinstated in her former

dignity and virtue, for a few ducats. This scandalous traffic was

carried to an extent that soon destroyed all sense of morality, and

heightened the hue of vice. Ambrosius, bishop of Camadoli, a prelate

of extraordinary virtue, visited various convents in his diocese, but,

on inspecting their proceedings, he found no traces of virtue, or even

of decency remaining in any one of them; nor was he able, with all the

sagacity he exercised on the subject, to reinfuse the smallest particle

of these qualities into the degenerated minds of the sisterhood.

The reform of the nunneries was the first step that distinguished the

government of Sextus IV. after he ascended the papal throne, at the close

of the fifteenth century. Bossus, a celebrated canon, of the strictest

principles, and most inflexible disposition, was the agent selected by

his holiness for this arduous achievement. The Genoese convents, where

the nuns lived in open defiance of all the rules of decency and precepts

of religion, were the first objects of his attention. The orations which

he publicly uttered from the pulpit, as well as the private lectures

and exhortations which he delivered to the nuns from the confessional

chair, were fine models, not only of his zeal and probity, but of his

literature and eloquence. They breathed, in the most impressive manner,

the true spirit of Christian purity; but his glowing representations

of the bright beauties of virtue, and the dark deformities of vice

made little impression upon their corrupt hearts. Despising the open

calumnies of the envious, and the secret hostilities of the guilty, he

proceeded, in spite of all discouragement and opposition, in his highly

honorable pursuit; and at length, by his wisdom and assiduity, beheld

the fairest prospects of success daily opening to his view. The rays of

hope, however, had scarcely beamed upon his endeavors, when they were

immediately overclouded by disappointment. The arm of magistracy, which

he had wisely called upon to aid the accomplishment of his design, was

enervated by the venality of its hand; and the incorrigible objects of

his solicitude having freed themselves by bribery from the terror of the

civil power, contemned the reformer’s denunciation of eternal vengeance

hereafter, and relapsed into their former licentiousness and depravity.

A few, indeed, among the great number of nuns who inhabited these guilty

convents, were converted by the force of his eloquent remonstrances,

and became afterward highly exemplary by the virtue and piety of their

lives; but the rest abandoned themselves to their impious courses; and

though more vigorous methods were, in a short time, adopted against the

refractory monastics, they set all attempts to reform them at defiance.

The modes, perhaps, in which their vices were indulged, changed with

the character of the age; and as manners grew more refined, the gross

and shameful indulgences of the monks and nuns were changed into a more

elegant and decent style of enjoyment. Fashion might render them more

prudent and reserved in their intrigues; but their passions were not less

vicious, nor their dispositions less corrupt.

The disorderly manners of these solitary devotees were among the

principal causes that produced the reformation. There is a point beyond

which even depravity cannot go in corrupting the manners of the age.

The number and power of the monastics, or, as they were at that time

called, the regular clergy, was certainly great, and their resistance

to the approaches of reformation obstinate; but the temper of the times

had changed, and the glorious and beneficial event was at length

accomplished. The Catholics viewed the dismemberment of their church

as a fatal stroke to their interest and power; but it has since been

confessed, by every candid and rational member of this communion to be

an event which has contributed to advance morals to a higher degree of

perfection than they had ever before attained since the introduction of

Christianity, and to restore the discipline of the church to some portion

of its original purity.

The pure spirit of the gospel of Christ breathes forth a holy religion,

founded on meekness, charity, kindness, and brotherly love; but

fanaticism, when joined to a systematic and irrational solitude, only

produces the rank and poisonous fruits we have already described. The

trivial, querulous, and intolerant superstitions, which, during so

many ages, eclipsed the reason and morals of mankind, and obscured, in

clouds of lust and cruelty, the bright rays of evangelical truth, were

the sad effects of irrational solitude. The best affections of nature

were perverted or suppressed; all the gentle offices of humanity were

neglected; moral sentiments despised; and the angel voice of piety

unheard, or converted into the violent vociferations of hatred, and the

cries of persecution. The loud clangors of pretended orthodoxy resounded

with sanguinary hostilities from shore to shore; the earth was deluged

with the blood of those who dared to deny, or even to doubt the absurd

and idle dogmas which the monks every where invented: and their horrid

barbarities were attempted to be justified by propagating the notion that

severity with heretics was the only mode of preserving the true faith.

Oh! how blind is human folly! How obdurate are hearts vitiated by pride!

How can that be the true faith which tears asunder every social tie;

annihilates all the feelings of nature; places cruelty and horror on the

throne of humanity and love, and scatters ferocious fury and insatiable

hatred through the paths of life? But we may now indulge a pleasing hope,

that the period is at hand, when the sacred temple of religion, purified

by the labors of learned and truly pious men, from the foul stains with

which fanaticism and ambition have so long defaced it, shall be restored

to its own divine simplicity; and only the voice of gentleness, of love,

of peace of virtue, and of goodness, be heard within its walls. Then

will every Christian be truly taught the only means by which his days

may be useful and his life happy; and Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists,

Protestants, and every really religious class of men, will unite in acts

of sincere benevolence and universal peace. No austere, gloomy, and

dispiriting duties: no irrational penances and unnatural mortification,

will be enjoined; no intolerant cruelties be inflicted; no unsocial

institutions established; no rites of solitary selfishness be required;

but reason and religion in divine perfection, will reassume their reign;

and unaffected and sincere devotion will occupy every mind; the Almighty

will be worshipped _in spirit_ and _in truth_; and we shall be convinced

that “the wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest; but that

the work of righteousness is peace, and the effect of righteousness,

quietude and assurance for ever.” To effect this, a rational retirement

from the tumults of the world will be occasionally necessary, in order to

_commune with our own hearts, and be still_, and to dispose our minds to

such a train of thinking, as shall prepare us, when the giddy whirl of

life is finished for the society of more exalted spirits.

Oh! would mankind but make fair truth their guide,

And force the helm from prejudice and pride,

Were once these maxims fix’d, that God’s our friend,

Virtue our good, and happiness our end,

How soon must reason o’er the world prevail,

And error, fraud and superstition fail!

None would hereafter, then, with groundless fear,

Describe th’ Almighty cruel and severe;

Predestinating some, without pretence,

To heaven; and some to hell, for no offence;

Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes,

And favoring sects or nations, men or times.

To please him, none would foolishly forbear,

Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair:

Or deem it merit to believe, or teach,

What reason contradicts or cannot reach.

None would fierce zeal for piety mistake,

Or malice, for whatever tenet’s sake;

Or think salvation to one sect confin’d,

And heaven too narrow to contain mankind.

No more would brutal rage disturb our peace,

But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease;

Our own and others’ good each hour employ,

And all things smile with universal joy;

Fair virtue then, with pure religion join’d,

Would regulate and bless the human mind,

And man be what his Maker first design’d.