Eloisa

How many things may be said without opening one’s lips! How warm the sentiments that may be communicated, without the cold interposition of speech! Eloisa insensibly permitted her attention to be engaged by the same object. Her eyes were fixed on the three children; and her heart, ravished with the most enchanting extasy, animated her charming features with all the affecting sweetness of maternal tenderness.

Thus given up to this double contemplation, Wolmar and I were indulging our reveries, when the children put an end to them. The eldest, who was diverting himself with the prints, seeing the counters prevented his brother from being attentive, took an opportunity, when he had piled them up, to give them a knock and throw them down on the floor. Marcellin fell a crying; and Eloisa, without troubling herself to quiet him, bid Fanny pick up the counters. The child was immediately hushed; the counters were nevertheless not brought him, nor did he begin to cry again as I expected. This circumstance, which however was nothing in itself, recalled to my mind a great many others, to which I had given no attention; and when I think of them, I don’t remember ever to have seen children, with so little speaking to, give so little trouble. They hardly ever are out of their mother’s sight, and yet one can hardly perceive they are in company. They are lively and playful, as children of their age should be, but never clamorous or teizing; they are already discreet, before they know what discretion is. But what surprizes me most, is, that all this appears to be brought about of itself; and that, with such an affectionate tenderness for her children, Eloisa seems to give herself so little concern about them. In fact, one never sees her very earnest to make them speak or hold their tongues, to make them do this or let that alone. She never disputes with them; she never contradicts them in their amusements: so that one would be apt to think she contented herself with seeing and loving them; and that when they have passed the day with her, she had discharged the whole duty of a mother towards them.

But, though this peaceable tranquility appears more agreeable in contemplation than the restless solicitude of other mothers, yet I was not a little surprized at an apparent indolence, so little agreeable to her character. I would have had her even a little discontented, amidst so many reasons to the contrary; so well doth a superfluous activity become maternal affection! I would willingly have attributed the goodness of the children to the care of the mother; and should have been glad to have observed more faults in them, that I might have seen her more solicitous to correct them.

Having busied myself with these reflections a long time in silence, I at last determined to communicate them to her. I see, said I, one day, that heaven rewards virtuous mothers, in the good disposition of their children; but the best disposition must be cultivated. Their education ought to begin from the time of their birth. Can there be a time more proper to form their minds, than when they have received no impression that need to be effaced? If you give them up to themselves in their infancy, at what age do you expect them to be docile? While you have nothing else to teach them, you ought to teach them obedience. Why, returned she, do my children disobey me? That were difficult, said I, as you lay no commands upon them. On this she looked at her husband and laughed; then, taking me by the hand, she led me into the closet, that we might converse without being heard by the children.

Here, explaining her maxims at leisure, she discovered to me, under that air of negligence, the most vigilant attention of maternal tenderness. I was a long time, said she, of your opinion with regard to the premature instruction of children; and while I expected my first child, was anxious concerning the obligations I should soon have to discharge. I used often to speak to Mr. Wolmar on that subject. What better guide could I take than so sensible an observer, in whom the interest of a father was united to the indifference of a philosopher? He fulfilled, and indeed surpassed my expectations. He soon made me sensible, that the first and most important part of education, precisely that which all the world neglects, [78] is that of preparing a child to receive instruction.

The common error of parents, who pique themselves on their own knowledge, is to suppose their children capable of reasoning as soon as they are born, and to talk to them as if they were grown persons before they can speak. Reason is the instrument they use, whereas every other means ought first to be used in order to form that reason; for it is certain, that, of all the knowledge which men acquire, or are capable of acquiring, the art of reasoning is the last and most difficult to learn. By talking to them, at so early an age, in a language they do not understand, they learn to be satisfied with mere words; to talk to others in the same manner; to contradict every thing that is said to them; to think themselves as wise as their teachers: and all that one thinks to obtain by reasonable motives, is in fact acquired only by those of fear or vanity.

The most consummate patience would be wearied out, by endeavouring to educate a child in this manner: and thus it is that, fatigued and disgusted with the perpetual importunity of their children, their parents, unable to support the noise and disorder they themselves have given rise to, are obliged to part with them, and to deliver them over to the care of a master; as if one could expect in a preceptor more patience and good-nature than in a father.

Nature, continued Eloisa, would have children be children before they are men. If we attempt to pervert that order, we produce only forward fruit, which has neither maturity nor flavour, and will soon decay; we raise young professors and old children. Infancy has a manner of perceiving, thinking and feeling, peculiar to itself. Nothing is more absurd than to think of substituting ours in its stead; and I would as soon expect a child of mine to be five foot high, as to have a mature judgment, at ten years old.

The understanding does not begin to form itself till after some years, and when the corporeal organs have acquired a certain confidence. The design of nature is therefore evidently to strengthen the body, before the mind is exercised. Children are always in motion; rest and reflection is inconsistent with their age; a studious and sedentary life would prevent their growth and injure their health; neither their body nor mind can support restraint. Shut up perpetually in a room with their books, they lose their vigour, become delicate, feeble, sickly, rather stupid than reasonable; and their minds suffer, during their whole lives, for the weakness of their bodies.

But, supposing such premature instruction were as profitable as it is really hurtful to their understandings, a very great inconvenience would attend the application of it to all indiscriminately, without regard to the particular genius of each. For, besides the constitution common to its species, every child at its birth possesses a peculiar temperament, which determines its genius and character; and which it is improper either to pervert or restrain; the business of education being only to model and bring it to perfection. All these characters are, according to Mr. Wolmar, good in themselves: for nature, says he, makes no mistakes. [79] All the vices imputed to malignity of disposition are only the effect of the bad form it hath received. According to him, there is not a villain upon earth, whose natural propensity, well directed, might not have been productive of great virtues; nor is there a wrong-head in being, that might not have been of use to himself and society, had his natural talents taken a certain bias; just as deformed and monstrous images are rendered beautiful and proportionable, by placing them in a proper point of view. Every thing, says he, tends to the common good in the universal system of nature. Every man has his place assigned in the best order and arrangement of things; the business is to find out that place, and not to disturb such order. What must be the consequence then of an education begun in the cradle, and carried on always in the same manner, without regard to the vast diversity of temperaments and genius in mankind? Useless or hurtful instructions would be given to the greater part, while at the same time they are deprived of such as would be most useful and convenient; nature would be confined on every side, and the greatest qualities of the mind defaced, in order to substitute in their place mean and little ones, of no utility. By using indiscriminately the same means with different talents, the one serves to deface the other, and all are confounded together. Thus, after a great deal of pains thrown away in spoiling the natural endowments of children, we presently see those transitory and frivolous ones of education decay and vanish, while those of nature, being totally obscured, appear no more: and thus we lose at once what we have pulled down, and what we have raised up. In a word, in return for so much pains indiscreetly taken, all these little prodigies become wits without sense, and men, without merit, remarkable only for their weakness and insignificancy.

I understand your maxims, said I to Eloisa; but I know not how to reconcile them with your own opinion on the little advantage arising from the display of the genius and natural talents of individuals, either respecting their own happiness or the real interests of society. Would it not be infinitely better to form a perfect model of a man of sense and virtue, and then to form every child by education after such a model, by animating one, retraining another, by regulating its passions, improving its understanding, and thus correcting nature?——Correcting nature! says Mr. Wolmar, interrupting me, that is a very fine expression; but before you make use of it, pray reply to what Eloisa has already advanced.

The most significant reply, as I thought, was to deny the principle on which her arguments were founded; which I accordingly did. You suppose, said I, that the diversity of temperament and genius, which distinguish individuals, is the immediate work of nature; whereas nothing is less evident. For, if our minds are naturally different, they must be unequal; and if nature has made them unequal, it must be by endowing some, in preference to others, with a more refined perception, a greater memory, or a greater capacity of attention. Now, as to perception and memory, it is proved by experience, that their different degrees of extent or perfection are not the standard of genius and abilities; and as to a capacity of attention, it depends solely on the force of the passions by which we are animated; and it is also proved that all mankind are by nature susceptible of passions, strong enough to excite in them that degree of attention necessary to a superiority of genius.

If a diversity of genius, therefore, instead of being derived from nature, be the effect of education; that is to say, of the different ideas and sentiments, which objects excite in us during our infancy, of the various circumstances in which we are engaged, and of all the impressions we receive; so far should we be from waiting to know the character of a child before we give it education, that we should, on the contrary, be in haste to form its character by giving it a proper education.

To this he replied, that it was not his way to deny the existence of any thing, because he could not explain it. Look, says he, upon those two dogs in the court-yard. They are of the same litter; they have been fed and trained together; have never been parted; and yet one of them is a brisk, lively, good-natured, docible cur; while the other is lumpish, heavy, cross-grained, and incapable of learning any thing. Now their difference of temperament, only, can have produced in them that of character, as the difference of our interior organization produces in us that of our minds: in every other circumstance they have been alike.——Alike! interrupted I; what a vast difference may there not have been, though unobserved by you? How many minute objects may not have acted on the one, and not on the other! How many little circumstances may not have differently affected them, which you have not perceived! Very pretty indeed, says he; so, I find you reason like the astrologers; who, when two men are mentioned of different fortune yet born under the same aspect, deny the identity of circumstances. On the contrary, they maintain, that, on account of the rapidity of the heavenly motions, there must have been an immense distance between the themes, in the horoscope, of the one and the other; and that, if the precise moment of their births had been carefully noted, the objection had been converted into a proof.

But, pray, let us leave these subtilties, and confine ourselves to observation. This may teach us, indeed, that there are characters which are known almost at the birth, and children that may be studied at the breast of their nurses: but these are of a particular class, and receive their education in beginning to live. As for others, who are later known, to attempt to form their genius before their characters are distinguished, is to run a risk of spoiling what is good in their natural dispositions, and substituting what is worse in its place. Did not your master Plato maintain, that all the art of man, that all philosophy could not extract from the human mind what nature had not implanted there; as all the operations in chemistry are incapable of extracting from any mixture more gold than is already contained in it? This is not true of our sentiments or our ideas; but it is true of our disposition or capacity of acquiring them. To change the genius, one must be able to change the interior organization of the body; to change a character, one must be capable of changing the temperament on which it depends. Have you ever heard of a passionate man’s becoming patient and temperate, or of a frigid methodical genius having acquired a spirited imagination? For my own part, I think it would be just as easy to make a fair man brown, or a blockhead a man of sense. ’Tis in vain then to attempt to model different minds by one common standard. One may restrain, but we can never change them: one may hinder men from appearing what they are, but can never make them really otherwise; and, though they disguise their sentiments in the ordinary commerce of life, you will see them reassume their real characters on every important occasion. Besides, our business is not to change the character, and alter the natural disposition of the mind, but, on the contrary, to improve and prevent its degenerating; for by these means it is, that a man becomes what he is capable of being, and that the work of nature is compleatd by education. Now, before any character can be cultivated, it is necessary that it should be studied; that we should patiently wait its opening; that we should furnish occasions for it to display itself; and that we should forbear doing any thing, rather than doing wrong. To one genius it is necessary to give wings, and to another shackles; one should be spurred forward, another reined in; one should be encouraged, another intimidated; sometimes it should be checked, and at others assisted. One man is formed to extend human knowledge to the highest degree; to another it is even dangerous to learn to read. Let us wait for the opening of reason; it is that which displays the character, and gives it its true form: it is by that also it is cultivated, and there is no such thing as education before the understanding is ripe for instruction.

As to the maxims of Eloisa, which you think opposite to this doctrine, I see nothing in them contradictory to it: on the contrary, I find them, for my own part, perfectly compatible. Every man at his birth brings into the world with him, a genius, talents and character peculiar to himself. Those, who are destined to live a life of simplicity in the country, have no need to display their talents in order to be happy: their unexerted faculties are like the gold mines of the Valais, which the public good will not permit to be opened. But in a more polished society, where the head is of more use than the hands, it is necessary that all the talents nature hath bestowed on men should be exerted; that they should be directed to that quarter, in which they can proceed the furthest; and above all, that their natural propensity should be encouraged by every thing which can make it useful. In the first case, the good of the species only is consulted; every one acts in the same manner; example is their only rule of action; habit their only talent; and no one exerts any other genius than that which is common to all: Whereas in the second case we consult the interest and capacity of individuals; if one man possess any talent superior to another, it is cultivated and pursued as far as it will reach; and if a man be possessed of adequate abilities, he may become the greatest of his species. These maxims are so little contradictory, that they have been put in practice in all ages. Instruct not therefore the children of the peasant, nor of the citizen, for you know not as yet what instruction is proper for them. In every case let the body be formed, till the judgment begins to appear: then is the time for cultivation.

All this would seem very well, said I, if I did not see one inconvenience, very prejudicial to the advantages you promise yourself from this method; and this is, that children, thus left to themselves, will get many bad habits, which can be prevented only by teaching them good ones. You may see such children readily contract all the bad practices they perceive in others, because such examples are easily followed, and never imitate the good ones, which would cost them more trouble. Accustomed to have every thing, and to do as they please on every occasion, they become mutinous, obstinate and intractable.——But, interrupted Mr. Wolmar, it appears to me that you have remarked the contrary in ours, and that this remark has given rise to this conversation. I must confess, answered I, this is the very thing which surprizes me. What can she have done to make them so tractable? What method hath she taken to bring it about? What has she substituted instead of the yoke of discipline? A yoke much more inflexible, returned he immediately, that of necessity: but, in giving you an account of her conduct, you will be better able to comprehend her views. He then engaged Eloisa to explain her method of education; which, after a short pause, she did in the following manner.

“Happy, my dear friend, are those who are well-born! I lay not so great a stress as Mr. Wolmar does on my own endeavours. I doubt much, notwithstanding his maxims, that a good man can ever be made out of a child of a bad disposition and character. Convinced, nevertheless, of the excellence of his method, I endeavoured to regulate my conduct, in the government of my family, in every respect agreeable to him. My first hope is, that I shall never have a child of a vicious disposition; my second, that I shall be able to educate those God has given me, under the direction of their father, in such a manner, that they may one day have the happiness of possessing his virtues. To this end I have endeavoured to adopt his rules by giving them a principle less philosophical, and more agreeable to maternal affection; namely to make my children happy. This was the first prayer of my heart after I was a mother, and all the business of my life is to effect it. From the first time I held my eldest son in my arms, I have reflected that the state of infancy is almost a fourth part of the longest life; that men seldom pass through the other three fourths; and that it is a piece of cruel prudence to make that first part uneasy, in order to secure the happiness of the rest, which may never come. I reflected, that during the weakness of infancy, nature had oppressed children in so many different ways, that it would be barbarous to add to that oppression the empire of our caprices, by depriving them of a liberty so very much confined, and which they were so little capable of abusing. I resolved, therefore, to lay mine under as little constraint as possible; to leave them to the free exertion of all their little powers; and to suppress in them none of the emotions of nature. By these means I have already gained two great advantages; the one, that of preventing their opening minds from knowing any thing of falsehood, vanity, anger, envy, and in a word of all those vices which are the consequences of subjection, and which one is obliged to have recourse to, when we would have children do what nature does not teach: the other is, that they are more at liberty to grow and gather strength, by the continual exercise which instinct directs them to. Accustomed, like the children of peasants, to expose themselves to the heat and cold, they grow as hardy; are equally capable of bearing the inclemencies of the weather; and become more robust as living more at their ease. This is the way to provide against the age of maturity, and the accidents of humanity. I have already told you, that I dislike that destructive pusillanimity, which, by dint of solicitude and care, enervates a child, torments it by constant restraint, confines it by a thousand vain precautions, and, in short, exposes it during its whole life to those inevitable dangers it is thus protected from but for a moment; and thus, in order to avoid catching a few colds while children, men lay up for themselves consumptions, pleurisies, and a world of other diseases.

What makes children, left thus to themselves, acquire the ill habits you speak of, is that, not contented with their own liberty, they endeavour to command others; which is owing to the absurd indulgence of too many fond mothers, who are to be pleased only by indulging all the fantastical desires of their children. I flatter myself, my friend, that you have seen in mine nothing like the desire of command and authority, even over the lowest domestic; and that you have seen me countenance as little the false complaisance and ceremony used to them. It is in this point, that I think I have taken a new and more certain method to make my children at once free, easy, obliging and tractable and that on a principle the most simple in the world, which is, by convincing them they are but children.

To consider the state of infancy in itself, is there a being in the universe more helpless or miserable; that lies more at the mercy of every thing about it; that has more need of pity and protection, than an infant? Does it not seem, that, on this account, the first noise which nature directs it to make is that of crying and complaint? Does it not seem, that nature gives it an affecting and tender appearance, in order to engage every one who approaches it, to assist its weakness, and relieve its wants? What, therefore, can be more offensive, or contrary to order, than to see a child pert and imperious, commanding every one about him, and assuming impudently the tone of a master over those who, should they abandon him, would leave him to perish? Or can any thing be more absurd than to see parents approve such behaviour, and encourage their children to tyrannise over their nurses, till they are big enough to tyrannise over the parents themselves?

As to my part, I have spared no pains to prevent my son’s acquiring the dangerous idea of command and servitude, and have never given him room to think himself attended more out of duty than pity. This point is, perhaps, the most difficult and important in education; nor can I well explain it, without entering into all those precautions which I have been obliged to take, to suppress in him that instinctive knowledge, which is so ready to distinguish the mercenary service of domestics from the tenderness of maternal solicitude.

One of my principal methods has been, as I have just observed, to convince him of the impossibility of his subsisting at his age, without our assistance. After which I had no great difficulty to shew him, that, in receiving assistance from others, we lay ourselves under obligations to them, and are in a state of dependence; and that the servants have a real superiority over him, because he cannot do without them, while he, on the contrary, can do them no service: so that instead of being vain of their attendance, he looks upon it with a sort of humiliation, as a mark of his weakness, and ardently wishes for the time, when he shall be big and strong enough to have the honour of serving himself.”

These notions, I said, would be difficult to establish in families, where the father and mother themselves are waited on like children; but in this, where every person has some employment allotted him, even from the master and mistress to the lowest domestic; where the intercourse between them apparently consists only of reciprocal services, I do not think it impossible: but I am at a loss to conceive how children, accustomed to have their real wants so readily satisfied, can be prevented from expecting the same gratification of their imaginary wants or humours; or how it is that they do not sometimes suffer from the humour of a servant, who may treat their real wants as imaginary ones.

“Oh, my friend, replied Mrs. Wolmar, an ignorant woman may frighten herself at any thing, or nothing. But the real wants of children, as well as grown persons, are very few; we ought rather to regard the duration of our ease than the gratifications of a single moment. Do you think, that a child, who lies under no restraint, can suffer so much from the humour of a governess, under the eye of its mother, as to hurt it? You imagine inconveniencies, which arise from vices already contracted, without reflecting that my care has been to prevent such vices from being contracted at all. Women naturally love children; and no misunderstanding would arise between them, except from the desire of one to subject the other to their caprices. Now that cannot happen here, neither on the part of the child, of whom nothing is required, nor on that of the governess, whom the child has no notion of commanding. I have in this acted directly contrary to other mothers, who in appearance would have their children obey the domestics, and in reality require the servants to obey the children: here neither of them command nor obey; but the child never meets with more complaisance, from any person, than he shews for them. Hence, perceiving that he has no authority over the people about him, he becomes tractable and obliging; in seeking to gain the esteem of others, he contracts an affection for them in turn: this is the infallible effect of self-love; and from this reciprocal affection, arising from the notion of equality, naturally result those virtues, which are constantly preached to children, without any effect.

I have thought, that the most essential part in the education of children, and which is seldom regarded in the best families, is to make them sensible of their inability, weakness and dependence, and, as my husband called it, the heavy yoke of that necessity which nature has imposed on our species; and that, not only in order to shew them how much is done to alleviate the burthen of that yoke, but especially to instruct them betimes in what rank providence has placed them, that they may not presume too far above themselves, or be ignorant of the reciprocal duties of humanity.

Young people, who from their cradle have been brought up in ease and effeminacy, who have been caressed by every one, indulged in all their caprices, and have been used to obtain easily every thing they desired; enter upon the world with many impertinent prejudices, of which they are generally cured by frequent mortifications, affronts and chagrin. Now I would willingly spare my children this second kind of education, by giving them, at first, a just notion of things. I had indeed once-resolved to indulge my eldest son in every thing he wanted, from a persuasion that the first impulses of nature must be good and salutary: but I was not long in discovering, that children, conceiving from such treatment that they have a right to be obeyed, depart from a state of nature almost as soon as born; contracting our vices from our example, and theirs by our indiscretion. I saw, that if I indulged him in all his humours, they would only increase by such indulgence; that it was necessary to stop at some point, and that contradiction would be but the more mortifying, as he should be less accustomed to it: but that it might be less painful to him, I began to use him to it by degrees; and in order to prevent his tears and lamentations, I made every denial irrecoverable. It is true, I contradict him as little as possible, and never without due consideration. Whatever is given or permitted him, is done unconditionally and at the first instance; and in this we are indulgent enough: but he never gets any thing by importunity, neither his tears nor intreaties being of any effect. Of this he is now so well convinced, that he makes no use of them; he goes his way on the first word, and frets himself no more at seeing a box of sweetmeats taken away from him, than at seeing a bird fly away, which he would be glad to catch; there appearing to him the same impossibility of having the one as the other; and so far from beating the chairs and tables, that he dares not lift his hand against those who oppose him. In every thing that displeases him, he feels the weight of necessity, the effect of his own weakness, but never——excuse me a moment, says she, seeing I was going to reply; I foresee your objection and am coming to it immediately.

The great cause of the ill humour of children is the care which is taken either to quiet or to aggravate them. They will sometimes cry for an hour, for no other reason in the world than because they perceive we would not have them. So long as we take notice of their crying, so long have they a reason for continuing to cry; but they will soon give over of themselves, when they see no notice is taken of them: for, old or young, nobody loves to throw away his trouble. This is exactly the case with my eldest boy, who was once the most peeviest little bawler, stunning the whole house with his cries; whereas now you can hardly hear there is a child in the house. He cries, indeed, when he is in pain; but then it is the voice of nature, which should never be restrained; and he is again hushed as soon as ever the pain is over. For this reason I pay great attention to his tears, as I am certain he never sheds them for nothing: and hence I have gained the advantage of being certain when he is in pain and when not; when he is well and when sick; an advantage which is lost with those who cry out of mere humour, and only in order to be appeased. I must confess, however, that this management is not to be expected from nurses and governesses: for, as nothing is more tiresome than to hear a child cry, and as these good women think of nothing but the time present, they do not foresee, that by quieting it to day, it will cry the more tomorrow. But what is still worse, this indulgence produces an obstinacy which is of more consequence as the child grows up. The very cause that makes it a squawler at three years of age, will make it stubborn and refractory at twelve, quarrelsome at twenty, imperious and insolent at thirty, and insupportable all its life.

I come now to your objection, added she, smiling. In every indulgence granted to children, they can easily see our desire to please them, and therefore they should be taught to suppose we have reason for refusing or complying with their requests. This is another advantage gained by making use of authority, rather than persuasion, on every necessary occasion. For, as it is impossible they can always be blind to our motives, it is natural for them to imagine that we have some reason for contradicting them, of which they are ignorant. On the contrary, when we have once submitted to their judgment, they will pretend to judge of every thing; and thus become cunning, deceitful, fruitful in shifts and chicanery, endeavouring to silence those who are weak enough to argue with them: for, when one is obliged to give them an account of things above their comprehension, they attribute the most prudent conduct to caprice, because they are incapable of understanding it. In a word, the only way to render children docile and capable of reasoning, is not to reason with them at all; but to convince them, that it is above their childish capacities; for they will always suppose the argument in their favour, unless you can give them good cause to think otherwise. They know very well that we are unwilling to displease them, when they are certain of our affection; and children are seldom mistaken in this particular: therefore, if I deny any thing to my children, I never reason with them; I never tell them why I do so or so; but I endeavour, as much as possible, that they should find it out; and that even after the affair is over. By these means they are accustomed to think that I never deny them any thing without a sufficient reason, though they cannot always see it.

On the same principle it is, that I never suffer my children to join in the conversation of grown persons, or foolishly imagine themselves upon an equality with them, because they are permitted to prattle. I would have them give a short and modest answer, when they are spoke to, but never to speak of their own head, or ask impertinent questions of persons so much older than themselves, to whom they ought to shew more respect.”

These, interrupted I, are very rigid rules, for so indulgent a mother as Eloisa. Pythagoras himself was not more severe with his disciples. You are not only afraid to treat them like men, but seem to be fearful lest they should too soon cease to be children. By what means can they acquire knowledge more certain and agreeably, than by asking questions of those who know better than themselves? What would the Parisian ladies think of your maxims, whose children are never thought to prattle too much or too long: they judge of their future understanding, by the nonsense and impertinence they utter when young? That may not be amiss, Mr. Wolmar will tell me, in a country where the merit of the people lies in chattering, and a man has no business to think, if he can but talk. But I cannot understand how Eloisa, who is so desirous of making the lives of her children happy, can reconcile that happiness with so much restraint; nor amidst so much confinement, what becomes of the liberty with which she pretends to indulge them.

“What, says she, with impatience, do we restrain their liberty, by preventing them from trespassing on ours? And cannot they be happy, truly, without a whole company’s sitting silent to admire their puerilities? To prevent the growth of their vanity is a surer means to effect their happiness: for the vanity of mankind is the source of their greatest misfortunes, and there is no person so great or so admired, whose vanity has not given him much more pain than pleasure. [80]

What can a child think of himself, when he sees a circle of sensible people listening to, admiring, and waiting impatiently for, his wit, and breaking out in raptures at every impertinent expression? Such false applause is enough to turn the heart of a grown person; judge then what effect it must have upon that of a child. It is with the prattle of children, as with the predictions in the Almanac. It would be strange, if amidst such a number of idle words, chance did not now and then jumble some of them into sense. Imagine the effect which such flattering exclamations must have on a simple mother, already too much flattered by her own heart. Think not, however that I am proof against this error, because I expose it. No, I see the fault, and yet am guilty of it. But, if I sometimes admire the repartees of my son, I do it at least in secret. He will not learn to become a vain prater, by hearing me applaud him; nor will flatterers have the pleasure, in making me repeat them, of laughing at any weakness.

I remember one day, having company, I went out to give some necessary orders, and on my return found four or five great blockheads busy at play with my boy; they came immediately to tell me, with great rapture, the many pretty things he had been saying to them, and with which they seemed quite charmed. Gentlemen, said I, coldly, I doubt not but you know how to make puppets say very fine things; but I hope my children will one day be men, when they will be able to act and talk of themselves; I shall then be always glad to hear what they have said and done well. Seeing this manner of paying their court did not take, they since play with my children, but not as with Punchinello; and to say the truth, they are evidently better, since they have been less admired.

As to their asking questions, I do not prohibit it indiscriminately. I am the first to tell them to ask, softly, of their father or me, what they desire to know. But I do not permit them to break in upon a serious conversation, to trouble every body with the first piece of impertinence that comes into their heads. The art of asking questions is not quite so easy as may be imagined. It is rather that of a master, than of a scholar. The wise know and enquire, says the Indian proverb, but the ignorant know not even what to enquire after. For want of such previous instruction, children, when at liberty to ask questions as they please, never ask any but such as are frivolous and answer no purpose, or such difficult ones whose solution is beyond their comprehension. Thus, generally speaking, they learn more by the questions which are asked of them, than from those which they ask of others.

But were this method, of permitting them to ask questions, as useful as it is pretended to be, is not the first and most important science to them, that of being modest and discreet? and is there any other that should be preferred to this? Of what use then is an unlimited freedom of speech to children, before the age at which it is proper for them to speak? Or the right of impertinently obliging persons to answer their childish questions? These little chattering querists ask questions, not so much for the sake of instruction, as to engage one’s notice. This indulgence, therefore, is not so much the way to instruct them, as to render them conceited and vain; an inconvenience much greater, in my opinion, than the advantage they gain by it: for ignorance will by degrees diminish, but vanity will always increase.

The worst that can happen from too long a reserve, will be, that my son, when he comes to years of discretion, will be less fluent in speech, and may want that volubility of tongue, and multiplicity of words, which he might otherwise have acquired: but when we consider how much the custom of passing away life in idle prattle, impoverishes the understanding, this happy sterility of words appears rather an advantage than otherwise. Shall the organ of truth, the most worthy organ of man, the only one whose use distinguishes him from the brutes, shall this be prostituted to no better purposes than those, which are answered as well by the inarticulate sounds of other animals? He degrades himself even below them, when he speaks and says nothing; a man should preserve his dignity, as such, even in his lightest amusements. If it be thought polite to stun the company with idle prate, I think it a much greater instance of true politeness to let others speak before us; to pay a greater deference to what is said, than to what we say ourselves; and to let them see we respect them too much, to think they can be entertained by our nonsense. The good opinion of the world, that which makes us courted and caressed by others, is not obtained so much by displaying our own talents, as by giving others an opportunity of displaying theirs, and by placing our own modesty as a foil to their vanity. You need not be afraid that a man of sense, who is silent only from reserve and discretion, should ever be taken for a fool. It is impossible in any country whatever, that a man should be characterised by what he has not said, or that he should be despised for being silent.

On the contrary, it may be generally observed, that people of few words impose silence on others who pay an extraordinary attention to what they say, which gives them every advantage of conversation. It is so difficult for the most sensible man to retain his presence of mind, during the hurry of a long discourse; so seldom that something does not escape him, that he afterwards repents of, that it is no wonder if he chuses to suppress what is pertinent, to avoid the risk of talking nonsense.

But there is a great difference between six years of age and twenty; my son will not be always a child, and in proportion as his understanding ripens, his father designs it shall be exercised. As to my part, my task does not extend so far. I may nurse children, but I have not the presumption to think of making them men. I hope, says she, looking at her husband, this will be the employment of more able heads. I am a woman and a mother, and know my place and my duty; and hence, I say again, it is not my duty to educate my sons, but to prepare them for being educated.

Nor do I any thing more in this than pursue the system of Mr. Wolmar, in every particular; which, the farther I proceed, the more reason I find to pronounce excellent and just. Observe my children, particularly the eldest; have you ever seen children more happy, more chearful, or less troublesome? You see them jump, and laugh, and run about all day, without incommoding any one. What pleasure, what independence, is their age capable of, which they do not enjoy, or which they abuse? They are under as little restraint in my presence, as when I am absent. On the contrary, they seem always at more liberty under the eye of their mother, than elsewhere; and, though I am the author of all the severity they undergo, they find me always more indulgent than any body else: for I cannot support the thought of their not loving me better than any other person in the world. The only rules imposed on them in our company, are those of liberty itself, viz they must lay the company under no greater restraint, than they themselves are under; they must not cry louder than we talk; and as they are not obliged to concern themselves with us, they are not to expect our notice. Now, if ever they trespass against such equitable rules as these, all their punishment is, to be immediately sent away; and I make this a punishment, by contriving to render every other place disagreeable to them. Setting this restriction aside, they are, in a manner, quite unrestrained; we never oblige them to learn any thing; never tire them with fruitless corrections; never reprimand them for trifles; the only lessons which are given them being those of practice. Every person in the house, having my directions, is so discreet and careful in this business, that they leave me nothing to wish for; and, if any defect should arise, my own assiduity would easily repair it.

Yesterday, for example, the eldest boy, having taken a drum from his brother, set him a crying. Fanny said nothing to him, at the time; but about an hour after, when she saw him in the height of his amusement, she in her turn took it from him, which set him a crying also. What, said she, do you cry for? You took it just now, by force, from your brother, and now I take it from you; what have you to complain of? Am not I stronger than you? She then began to beat the drum, as if she took pleasure in it. So far all went well, till sometime after, she was going to give the drum to the younger, but I prevented her, as this was not acting naturally, and might create envy between the brothers. In losing the drum, the youngest submitted to the hard law of necessity; the elder, in having it taken from him, was sensible of his injustice: both knew their own weakness, and were in a moment reconciled.”

A plan, so new, and so contrary to received opinions, at first surprized me. By dint of explanation, however, they at length represented it in an admirable light, and I was made sensible that the path of nature is the best. The only inconvenience, which I find in this method, and which appeared to me very great, was to neglect the only faculty which children possess in perfection, and which is only debilitated by their growing into years. Methinks, according to their own system of education, that the weaker the understanding, the more one ought to exercise and strengthen the memory, which is then so proper to be exercised. It is that, said I, which ought to supply the place of reason; it is enriched by judgment. [81] The mind becomes heavy and dull by inaction. The seed takes no root in a soil badly prepared, and it is a strange manner of preparing children to become reasonable, by beginning to make them stupid. How! stupid! cried Mrs. Wolmar immediately. Do you confound two qualities so different, and almost contrary, as memory and judgment? As if an ill-digested and unconnected lumber of things, in a weak head, did not do more harm than good to the understanding. I confess, that, of all the faculties of the human mind, the memory is the first which opens itself, and is the most convenient to be cultivated in children: but which, in your opinion, should be preferred, that which is most easy for them to learn, or that which is most important for them to know? Consider the use which is generally made of this aptitude, the eternal constraint to which they are subject in order to display their memory, and then compare its utility to what they are made to suffer. Why should a child be compelled to study languages he will never talk, and that even before he has learnt his own tongue? Why should he be forced incessantly to make and repeat verses he does not understand, and whose harmony all lies at the end of his fingers; or be perplexed to death with circles and triangles, of which he has no idea; or why burthened with an infinity of names of towns and rivers, which he constantly mistakes, and learns anew every day? Is this to cultivate the memory to the improvement of the understanding, or is all such frivolous acquisition worth one of those many tears it costs him? Were all this, however, merely useless, I should not so much complain of it; but is it not pernicious to accustom a child to be satisfied with mere words? Must not such a heap of crude and indigested terms and notions be injurious to the formation of those primary ideas with which the human understanding ought first to be furnished? And would it not be better to have no memory at all, than to have it stuffed with such a heap of literary lumber, to the exclusion of necessary knowledge!

If nature has given to the brain of children that softness of texture, which renders it proper to receive every impression, it is not fit for us to imprint the names of sovereigns, dates, terms of art, and other insignificant words of no meaning to them while young, nor of any use to them as they grow old: but it is our duty to trace out betimes all those ideas which are relative to the state and condition of humanity, those which relate to their duty and happiness, that they may serve to conduct them through life in a manner agreeable to their being and faculties. The memory of a child may be exercised, without poring over books. Every thing he sees, every thing he hears, catches his attention, and is stored up in his memory: he keeps a journal of the actions and conversation of men, and from every scene that presents itself, deduces something to enrich his memory. It is in the choice of objects, in the care to shew him such only as he ought to know, and to hide from him those of which he ought to be ignorant, that the true art of cultivating the memory consists.

You must not think, however, continued Eloisa, that we entirely neglect that care on which you think so much depends. A mother, if she is the least vigilant, holds in her hands the reins over the passions of her children. There are ways and means to excite in them a desire of instruction; and so far as they are compatible with the freedom of the child, and tend not to sow in him the seeds of vice, I readily employ them, without being chagrined if they are not attended with success: for there is always time enough for knowledge, but not a moment should be lost in forming the disposition. Mr. Wolmar lays, indeed, so great a stress on the first dawnings of reason, that he maintains, though his son should be totally ignorant at twelve years old, he might know not a whit the less at fifteen; without considering that nothing is less necessary than for a man to be a scholar, and nothing more so than for him to be just and prudent. You know that our eldest reads already tolerably well. I will tell you how he became fond of it; I had formed a design to repeat to him, from time to time, some fable out of la Fontaine, and had already begun, when he asked me one day, seriously, if ravens could talk. I saw immediately the difficulty of making him sensible of the difference between fable and falsehood, and laying aside la Fontaine, got off as well as I could, being from that moment convinced that fables were only proper for grown persons, and that simple truth only should be repeated to children. In the room of la Fontaine, therefore, I substituted a collection of little interesting and instructive histories, taken mostly from the bible; and, finding he grew attentive to these tales, I composed others as entertaining as possible, and applicable to present circumstances. These I wrote out fair, in a fine book ornamented with prints, which I kept locked up, except at the times of reading. I read also but seldom, and never long at a time, repeating often the same story, and commenting a little, before I passed on to another. When I observed him particularly intent, I pretended to recollect some orders necessary to be given, and left the story unfinished just in the most interesting part, laying the book down negligently, and leaving it behind me. I was no sooner gone than he would take it up, and go to his Fanny or somebody else, begging them to read the remainder of the tale; but as nobody was at his command, and every one had his instructions, he was frequently refused. One would give him a flat denial, another had something else to do, a third muttered it out very low and badly, and a fourth would leave it in the middle, just as I had done before. When we saw him heartily wearied out with so much dependence, somebody intimated to him, to learn to read himself, and then he need not ask any body, but might turn it over at pleasure. He was greatly delighted with the scheme; but, where should he find any one obliging enough to instruct him? This was a new difficulty, which we took care, however, not to make too great. In spite of this precaution, he was tired out three or four times; but of this I took no other notice, than to endeavour to make my little histories the more amusing, which brought him again to the charge with so much ardour, that though it is not six months since he began to learn, he will be very soon able to read the whole collection, without any assistance.

It is in this manner I endeavour to excite his zeal and inclination, to attain such knowledge as requires application and patience; but though he learns to read, he gets no such knowledge from books, for there is no such in the books he reads, nor is the application to it proper for children. I am desirous also of furnishing their heads with ideas, and not with words; for which reason I never set them to get any thing by heart.

Never! said I, interrupting her, that is saying a great deal. Surely you have taught him his prayers and his catechism! There you are mistaken, she replied. As to the article of prayers, I say mine, every morning and evening, aloud in the nursery, which is sufficient to teach them, without obliging them to learn. As to their catechism, they know not what it is. What! Eloisa! your children never learn their catechism! No, my friend, my children do not learn their catechism. Indeed! said I, quite surprized, so pious a mother!——I really do not comprehend you. Pray what is the reason they do not learn it? The reason is, said she, that I would have them some time or other believe it: I would have them be Christians. I understand you, I replied; you would not have their faith consist in mere words; you would have them believe, as well as know, the articles of their religion; and you judge very prudently that it is impossible for a man to believe what he does not understand. You are very difficult, said Mr. Wolmar, smiling; pray, were you a Christian by chance? I endeavour to be one, answered I, resolutely. I believe all that I understand of the Christian religion, and respect the rest, without rejecting it. Eloisa made me a sign of approbation, and we resumed the former subject of conversation; when, after explaining herself on several other subjects, and convincing me of her active and indefatigable maternal zeal, she concluded by observing, that her method exactly answered the two objects she proposed, namely, the permitting the natural disposition and character of her children to discover themselves, and empowering herself to study and examine it.

My children, continued she, lie under no manner of restraint, and yet cannot abuse their liberty. Their disposition can neither be depraved nor perverted; their bodies are left to grow, and their judgments to ripen at ease and leisure: subjection debases not their minds nor does flattery excite their self-love; they think themselves neither powerful men nor enslaved animals, but children happy and free. To guard them from vices, not in their nature, they have in my opinion, a better preservative than lectures which they would not understand, or of which they would soon be tired. This consists in the good behaviour of those about them; in the good conversation they hear, which is so natural to them all, that they stand in no need of instruction; it consists in the peace and unity of which they are witnesses; in the harmony which is constantly observed, and in the conduct and conversation of every one around them. Nursed hitherto in natural simplicity, whence should they derive those vices, of which they have never seen the example? Whence those passions they have no opportunity to feel, those prejudices which nothing they observe can impress? You see they betray no bad inclination; they have adopted no erroneous notions. Their ignorance is not opinionated, their desires are not obstinate; their propensity to evil is prevented, nature is justified, and every thing serves to convince me, that the faults we accuse her of, are not those of nature but our own.

It is thus that, given up to the indulgence of their own inclinations, without disguise or alteration, our children do not take an external and artificial form, but preserve exactly that of their original character. It is thus that character daily unfolds itself to observation, and gives us an opportunity to study the workings of nature, even to her most secret principles. Sure of never being reprimanded or punished, they are ignorant of lying or concealing any thing from us; and in whatever they say, whether before us or among themselves, they discover, without restraint, whatever lies at the bottom of their hearts. Being left at full liberty to prattle all day long to each other, they are under no restraint before me. I never check them, enjoin them to silence, or indeed pretend to take notice of what they say, while they talk sometimes very blameably, though I seem to know nothing of the matter. At the same time, however, I listen to them with attention, and keep an exact account of all they say and do; for these are the natural productions of the soil which we are to cultivate. A naughty word in their mouths is a plant or seed foreign to the soil, sown by the vagrant wind: should I cut it off by a reprimand, it would not fail ere long to shoot forth again. Instead of that, therefore, I look carefully to find its root, and pluck it up. I am only, said she, smiling, the servant of the gardener; I only weed the garden, by taking away the vicious plants: it is for him to cultivate the good ones.

It must be confessed also that with all the pains I may take, I ought to be well seconded to succeed, and that such success depends on a concurrence of circumstances, which is perhaps to be met with no where but here. The knowledge and discretion of a sensible father are required, to distinguish and point out in the midst of established prejudices, the true art of governing children from the time of their birth; his patience is required to carry it into execution, without ever contradicting his precepts by his practice; it is necessary that one’s children should be happy in their birth, and that nature should have made them amiable; it is necessary to have none but sensible and well disposed servants about one, who will not fail to enter into the design of their matter. One brutal or servile domestic would be enough to spoil all. In short, when one thinks how many adventitious circumstances may injure the best designs, and spoil the best-concerted projects, one ought to be thankful to Providence for every thing that succeeds, and to confess that wisdom depends greatly on good fortune. Say rather, I replied, that good fortune depends on prudence. Don’t you see that the concurrence of circumstances, on which you felicitate yourself, is your own doing, and that every one who approaches you is, in a manner, compelled to resemble you? O ye mothers of families! when you complain that your views, your endeavours, are not seconded, how little do you know your own power! Be but what you ought, and you will surmount all obstacles; you will oblige every one about you to discharge their duty, if you but discharge yours. Are not your rights those of nature? In spite of the maxims or practice of vice, these will be always respected by the human heart. Do you but aspire to be women and mothers, and the most gentle empire on earth will be also the most respectable.

In the close of our conversation Eloisa remarked that her task was become much easier since the arrival of Harriot. It is certain, said she, I should have had less trouble if I would have excited a spirit of emulation between the brothers. But this step appeared to me too dangerous; I chose, therefore, rather to take more pains, and to run less risk. Harriot has made up for this; for, being of a different sex, their elder, fondly beloved by both, and very sensible for her age, I make a kind of governess of her, and with the more success, as her lessons are less suspected to be such.

As to herself, her education falls under my care; but the principles on which I proceed are so different, as to deserve particular explanation. Thus much, at least, I can say of her already, that it will be difficult to improve on the talents nature has given her, and that her merit is equal to her mother’s, if her mother could possible have an equal.

We now, my Lord, expect you every day here, so that this should be my last letter. But I understand the reason of your stay with the army, and tremble for the consequence. Eloisa is no less uneasy, and desires you will oftener let her hear from you; conjuring you, at the same time, to think how much you endanger the peace of your friends, by exposing your person. For my part, I have nothing to say to you on this subject. Discharge your duty; the advice of pusillanimity is as foreign from my heart as from yours. I know too well, my dear B——, the only catastrophe worthy of you, is, to lose your life in the service and for the honour of your country; but ought you not to give some account of your days to him, who has preserved his only for your sake?

I find, by your two last letters, that a former one is missing, apparently the first you wrote me from the army, and in which you accounted for Mrs. Wolmar’s secret uneasiness. Not having received that letter, I imagine it was in the mail of one of our couriers, who was taken; you will, therefore, my friend, be pleased to re-communicate its contents. I am at a loss to conjecture what they were, and am uneasy about them. For again, I say, if happiness and peace dwell not in Eloisa’s mind, I know not where they will find an asylum on earth. You may make her easy, as to the dangers she imagines we are here exposed to; we have to do with an enemy too expert to suffer us to pursue him. With a handful of men, he baffles our attempts, and deprives us of all opportunity to attack him. As we are very sanguine, however; we may probably raise difficulties which the best generals would not be able to surmount, and at length oblige the French to fight us. I foresee our first success will cost us dear, and that the victory we gained at Dettingen will make us lose one in Flanders. We make head against a very able commander. Nor is this all; he possesses the love and confidence of his troops, and the French soldiers, when they have a good opinion of their leader, are invincible. [82] On the contrary, they are good for so little when they are commanded by courtiers they despise, that frequently their enemies need only to watch the intrigues of the cabinet, and seize a proper opportunity, to vanquish with certainty the bravest people on the continent: this they very well know. The duke of Marlborough, taking notice of the good look and martial air of a French soldier, taken prisoner at the battle of Blenheim, told him, if the French army had been composed of fifty thousand such men as he, it would not have been so easily beaten; Zounds sir, replied the grenadier, there are men enough in it like me, but it wants such a man as you; now such a man at present commands the French troops, and is on our side wanting; but we have courage, and trouble ourselves little about that. At all events, however, I intend to see their operations for the remainder of the campaign, and am resolved not to leave the army till it goes into winter-quarters. We shall all be gainers by such a delay, the season being too far advanced for us to think of crossing the mountains this year. I shall spend the winter with you, and not go to Italy till the beginning of the spring. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar I have thus changed my design, that I may have more time to contemplate that affecting picture you so pathetically describe, and that I may have also the opportunity to see Mrs. Orbe settled with them. Continue, my dear sir, to write with your usual punctuality, and you will do me a greater pleasure than ever: my equipage having been taken by the enemy, I have no books; but amuse myself in reading over your letters.

Letter CXLI. To Lord B——.

What pleasure does your lordship give me in acquainting me with your design of passing the winter with us at Clarens! but how dearly you make me pay for it by prolonging your stay at the army! what displeases me most, however, is to perceive that your resolution of making a campaign was fixed before we parted, though you mentioned nothing of it to me. I see, my lord, your reason for keeping it a secret, and cannot be pleased with you for it. Did you despise me so much as to think me unfit to accompany you? or have you ever known me mean enough to be attached to any thing I should prefer to the honour of dying with my friend? But if it was improper for me to follow you to the army, you should at least have left me in London; that would have displeased me less than your sending me hither.

By your last letter I am convinced that one of mine is indeed missing; the loss of which must have rendered the two succeeding ones in many respects obscure; but the necessary explanations to make them intelligible, shall be soon transmitted you. What is at present more particularly needful, is to remove your uneasiness concerning that of Mrs. Wolmar.

I shall not take upon me to give you a regular continuation of the discourse we had together after the departure of her husband. Many things have since intervened that make me forget great part of it, and it was resumed at so many different times during his absence, that I shall content myself, to avoid repetition, with giving you a summary of the whole.

In the first place she told me, that Mr. Wolmar, who neglected nothing in his power to make her happy, was nevertheless the sole author of all her disquietude; and that the more sincere their mutual attachment grew, the greater was her affliction. Would you think it, my lord? This gentleman so prudent, so reasonable, so little addicted to any kind of vice, so little subject to the tyranny of human passions, knows nothing of that faith which gives virtue all its merit; and in the innocence of an irreproachable life, feels only at the bottom of his heart, the dreadful tranquillity of the unbeliever. The reflection which arises from this contrast, in principle and morals, but aggravates Eloisa’s grief; she would think him even less culpable in disregarding the author of his Being, had he more reason to dread his anger, or presumption to brave his power. That the guilty should be led to appease their consciences at the expence of truth; that the pride of thinking differently from the vulgar may induce others to embrace error, she can readily conceive; but, continued she sighing, how a man so virtuous, and so little vain of his understanding, should be an infidel, surpasses my conception!

But before I proceed farther, it will be necessary to inform you of the peculiar character of this married couple. You are to conceive them as living solely for each other, and constantly taken up with their family; it being necessary to know the strictness of the union subsisting between them, to comprehend how their difference of sentiments, in this one article, is capable of disturbing it. Mr. Wolmar, educated in the customs of the Greek church, was not one of those who could support the absurdity of such ridiculous worship. His understanding, superior to the feeble yoke imposed on it, soon shook it off with contempt; rejecting, at the same time, every thing offered to his belief on such doubtful authority; thus forced in a manner into impiety, he degenerates into Atheism.

Having resided ever since in Roman-catholic countries, he has never been induced to a better opinion of Christianity, by what he found professed there. Their religion, he saw, tended only to the interest of their priests; that it consisted entirely of ridiculous grimaces, and a jargon of words without meaning. He perceived that men of sense and probity were unanimously of his opinion, and that they did not scruple to say so; nay, that the clergy themselves, under the rose, ridiculed in private what they inculcated and taught in public; hence he has often assured me that, after having taken much time and pains in the search, he never met with above three priests in his life that believed a God. [83]

By endeavouring to set himself to rights in there matters, he afterwards bewildered himself in metaphysical enquiries; and, seeing only doubts and contradictions offer themselves on every side, advanced so far that, when he returned to the doctrines of Christianity, he came too late, and incapable of either belief or conviction, the best arguments appeared to him inconclusive. He finished his career, therefore, by equally opposing all religious tenets whatever; and was converted from Atheism only to become a Sceptic.

Such is the husband which heaven has destined to Eloisa; to her whose true faith and sincere piety cannot have escaped your observations; but to know how much her gentle soul is naturally inclined to devotion, requires that long intimacy with her, in which her cousin and I have lived. It might be said, no terrestrial object being equal to her tenderness, her excess of sensibility is reduced to ascend to its source: not like a saint Theresa, whose amorous heart only changes its object: hers is a heart truly inexhaustible, which neither love nor friendship can drain; but whose affections are still raised to the only Being, worthy her ardent love. [84] Her love to God does not detach her from his creatures; it gives her neither severity nor spleen. But all her affections, proceeding from the same cause, and tempering each other become more sweet and attracting; she would, I believe, be less devout, if her love toward her husband, her children, her cousin, and me were less than it is. What is very singular, also, is that she knows but little of her own heart; and even complains that she finds in herself, a soul barren of tenderness and incapable of love to the sublimest object.——“Do what you will, she often says, the heart is affected only by the interposition of the senses, or the assistance of the imagination; and how shall we see or imagine the immensity of the Supreme Being? [85] When I would raise myself up to the deity, I know no longer where I am; perceiving no relation between us, I know not how to reach him, I neither see nor feel anything, I drop into a kind of annihilation; and, if I may venture to judge of others by myself, I should apprehend the ecstasies of the mystics are no less owing to the fulness of the heart than the emptiness of the head.”

“What must I do then, added she, to get rid of these delusions of a wandering mind? I substitute a less refined worship, but within the reach of my comprehension, in the room of those sublime contemplations, which surpass my mental faculties. With regret I debase the majesty of the divinity, and interpose perceptible objects between the deity and my feeble senses; not being able to contemplate his essence, I contemplate at least his works, and admire his goodness; but whatever method I take, instead of that pure love and affection he demands, it is only an interested gratitude I have to offer him.”

Thus, every thing is productive of sentiment in a susceptible mind; the whole universe presenting to Eloisa, nothing but what is a subject for love and gratitude. On every side she sees and adores the benevolent hand of providence; her children are pledges committed by it to her care; she receives its gifts, in the produce of the earth; she sees her table covered by its bounty; she sleeps under its protection; she awakes in peace under its care; she is instructed by its chastisements, is made happy by its favours: all the benefits she reaps, all the blessings she enjoys, are so many different subjects for adoration and praise. If the attributes of the divinity are beyond her feeble sight, she feels in every part of the creation, the common father of mankind. To honour thus the supreme benevolence, is it not to serve as much as possible an infinite Being?

Think, my lord, what pain it must give a woman of such a disposition, to spend a life of retirement with a man who, while he forms a part of her existence, cannot partake, of that hope which makes her existence dear; not to be able to join him in praise and gratitude to the deity, nor to converge with him on the blessed futurity we have to hope from his goodness! to see him insensible, in doing good, to every thing which should make virtue agreeable to us; and, with the strangest absurdity, thinking like an infidel and acting as a Christian. Imagine her walking abroad with her husband; the one admiring, in the beautiful verdure of spring, or golden fruits of autumn, the power and beneficence of the great Creator of all things; the other seeing in them nothing but a fortuitous combination of atoms, united only by chance. Imagine to yourself the situation of a married couple, having a sincere regard for each other, who, for fear of giving offence, dare not indulge themselves in such sentiments or reflections as the object around them inspire; but who are bound in duty, even from their reciprocal affections, to lay themselves under continual restraint. Eloisa and I hardly ever walk out together, but some striking or picturesque object puts her in mind of this disagreeable circumstance. Alas! said she with great emotion to me, one day, this beautiful prospect before us, so lively, so animating in our eyes, is a dead and lifeless scene in those of the unfortunate Wolmar. In all that harmony of created beings which nature displays, in vain do they unite to speak their Maker’s praise: Mr. Wolmar perceives only a profound and eternal silence.

You who know Eloisa, who know what delight her communicative mind takes in imparting its sentiments; think what she must suffer by such constraint, even though it were attended with no other inconvenience, than that unsocial reserve which is peculiarly disagreeable between two persons so intimately connected. But Eloisa has much greater cause of uneasiness. In vain does she oppose those involuntary terrors, those dreadful ideas that rush upon her mind. They return with redoubled force, and disturb every moment of her life. How horrid must it be for such an affectionate wife to think the supreme Being is the avenger of his offended attributes! to think the happiness of him on whom her own depends must end with his life; and to behold a reprobate of God in the father of her children! all her sweetness of disposition can hardly preserve her from falling into despair at this horrible idea; her religion only, which imbitters the infidelity of her husband, yielding her strength to support it. If heaven, says she sometimes, refuses me the conversion of this honest man, I have but one blessing to ask; which is that I may die before him.

Such, my lord, is the too just cause of Eloisa’s chagrin; such is the secret affliction which preys on her mind, and is aggravated by the care she takes to conceal it. Atheism, which stalks abroad undisguised among the Papists, is obliged to hide its head in every country, where reason, giving a sanction to religion, deprives infidels of all excuse. Its principles are naturally destructive; and, though they find partisans among the rich and great, who promote them, they are held in the utmost horror by an oppress’d and miserable people; who, seeing their tyrants thus freed from the only curb to restrain their insolence, comfort themselves with the hope of another life, their only consolation in this. Mrs. Wolmar, foreseeing the ill-consequences of her husband’s scepticism, and being desirous to preserve her children from the bad effects of so dangerous an example, prevailed on him to keep his principles a secret; to which she found no great trouble to persuade a man who, though honest and sincere, is yet discreet, unaffected, without vanity, and far from wishing to deprive others of a blessing which he himself cannot enjoy. In consequence of this, he keeps his tenets to himself; he goes to church with us; conforms himself to custom; and without making a verbal confession of what he does not believe, avoids giving scandal, and pays all that respect to the established religion of the country which the state has a right to demand of its citizens.

They have been married now almost eight years, during which time Mrs. Orbe only has been in the secret; nor probably would she of herself ever have discovered it. Such care indeed is taken to save appearances, and with so little affectation, that, after having spent six weeks together in the greatest intimacy, I had not the least suspicion; and should perhaps never have known Mr. Wolmar’s sentiments on religious matters, if Eloisa herself had not apprized me of them.

Several motives determined her to that confidence: In the first place, a too great reserve would have been incompatible with the friendship that subsists between us. Again, it would be only aggravating her uneasiness at her own cost, to deny herself the consolation of sharing it with a friend. She was, besides, unwilling that my presence would be long an obstacle to the conversation they frequently held together on a subject she had so much at heart. In short, knowing you intended soon to join us here, she was desirous, with the consent of her husband, that you should be previously made acquainted with his sentiments; as she hopes to find from your prudence and abilities, a supplement to our hitherto fruitless efforts, worthy of your character.

The opportunity she laid hold of to place this confidence in me, made me suspect also another reason, which however she herself never insinuated. Her husband has just left us; we lived formerly together; our hearts had been enamoured of each other; they still remembered their former transports; had they now forgot themselves but for a moment, we had been plunged into guilt and infamy. I saw plainly she was fearful of our private conversations, and sought to prevent the consequences she feared; and I was myself too well convinced, by the remembrance of what happened at Meillerie, that they who consider least in themselves are the safest to be trusted.