Eloisa

Letter XXXI. To Eloisa.

What an amazing mystery is the conduct and sentiments of the charming Eloisa! Tell me I beseech you, by what surprizing art you alone can unite such inconsistent counteracting emotions? Intoxicated as I am with love and delight, my soul is overwhelmed with grief and with despair. Amidst the most exquisite pleasures, I feel the most excruciating anxieties; nay the very enjoyment of those pleasures is made the subject of self accusation, and the aggravation of my distress. Heavens! what a torment to be able to indulge no one sensation but in a perpetual struggle of jarring passions; to be ever allaying the soothing tenderness of love, with the bitter pangs of rigorous reflection! A state of certain misery were a thousand times preferable to such doubtful disquietudes. To what purpose is it, alas, that I myself have been happy, when your misfortunes can torment me much more sensibly than my own? In vain do you attempt to disguise your own sad feelings, when your eyes will betray what your heart labours to conceal; and can those expressive eyes hide any thing from love’s all penetrating sight? Notwithstanding your assumed gaiety, I see, I see the cankering anxiety; and your melancholy, veiled, as you may think, by a smile, affects me the more sensibly.

Surely you need no longer disguise any thing from me! While I was in your mother’s room yesterday, she was accidentally called out, and left me alone. In the mean time, I heard sighs that pierced my very soul. Could I, think you, be at a loss to guess the fatal cause? I went up to the place from which they seemed to proceed, and on going into your chamber, perceived the goddess of my heart, sitting on the floor, her head reclining on a couch, and almost drowned in tears. Oh! had my blood thus trickled down, I should have felt less pain. Oh how my soul melted at the sight! Remorse stung me to the quick. What had been my supremest bliss, became my excruciating punishment. I felt only then for you, and would have freely purchased with my life, your former tranquility. I would fain have thrown myself at your feet, kissed off your falling tears, and burying them at the bottom of my heart, have died or wiped them away for ever; but your mother’s return made me hasten back to my post, and obliged me to carry away your griefs, and that remorse which can never end but in my death.

Oh how am I sunk and mortified by your grief! How you must despise me if our union is the cause of your own self-contempt, and if what has been the utmost of my bliss, proves the destruction of your peace! Be more just to yourself, my dearest Eloisa, and less prejudiced against the sacred ties which your own heart approved. Have you not acted in strict conformity to the purest laws of nature? Have you not voluntarily entered into the most solemn engagements? Tell me then, what you have done, that all laws divine, as well as human, will not sufficiently justify? Is there any thing wanting to confirm the sacred tie, but the mere formal ceremony of a public declaration? Be wholly mine, and you are no longer to blame. O my dear, my lovely wife, my tender and chaste companion, thou soother of all my cares, and object of all my wishes, oh think it not a crime to have listened to your love; but rather think it will be one to disobey it for the future. To marry any other man, is the only imputation you can fix on your unimpeached honour. Would you be innocent, be ever mine. The tie that unites us is legal, is sacred. The disregarding this tie should be the principal object of your concern. Love from henceforward can be the only guardian of your virtue.

But were the foundation of your sorrows ever so just, ever so necessary, why am I robbed of my property in them? Why should not my eyes too overflow and share your grief? You should have no one pang that I ought not to feel, no one anxiety that ought not to share. My heart then, my jealous heart, but too justly reproaches you for every single tear you pour not into my bosom. Tell me, thou cold dissembling fair, is not every secret of this kind an injury to my passion? Do you so soon forget the promise you so lately made! Oh if you loved as I do, my happiness would comfort you as much as your concern affects me, and you would feel my pleasures as I share your anxieties.

But alas! you consider me as a poor wretch whose reason is lost amidst the transports of delight. You are frightened at the violence of my joy, and compassionate the extravagance of my delirium, without considering that the utmost strength of human nature is not proof against endless pleasures? How, think you, can a poor weak mortal support the ineffable delights of infinite happiness? How do you imagine he can bear such ecstatic raptures without being lost to every other consideration. Do not you know that reason is limited, and that no understanding can command itself at all times, and upon all occasions? Pity then, I beseech you, the distraction you occasion, and forgive the errors you, yourself have thrown me into. I own freely to you I am no longer master of myself. My soul is absorbed totally in yours. However it may affect me in other respects, it fits me at least for the reception of your griefs, and the participation of your sorrows. Oh my dearest Eloisa! no longer conceal any thing from your other self.

Letter XXXII. Answer.

There was a time, my dear friend, when the stile of our letters was as easy to be understood as the subject of them was agreeable and delightful; animated as they were with the warmth of a generous passion, they stood in need of no art to elevate, no colourings of a luxuriant fancy to heighten them. Native simplicity was their best, their only character. That time, alas, is now no more, it is gone beyond the hope of a return; and the first melancholy proof that our hearts are less interested, is, that our correspondence is become less intelligible.

You have been an eye-witness of my concern, and fondly therefore imagine you can discover its true source. You endeavour to relieve me by the mere force of elocution, and while you are thinking to delude me, are yourself the dupe of your own artifice. The sacrifice I have made to my passion is a great one indeed; yet great as it is, it provokes neither my sorrow nor my repentance. But I have deprived this passion of its most engaging circumstances; ah there’s the cause! that virtue which enchanted every thing around it, is itself vanished like a dream. Those inexpressible transports which at once gave both vigour to our affections, and purity to our desires, are now no more. We have made pleasure our sole pursuit, and neglected happiness has bid adieu to us for ever. Call but to mind those Halcyon days, when the fervency of our passion bore a proportion to its innocence, when the violence of our affections gave us weapons against itself; then, the purity of our intentions could reconcile us to restraint, while with comfort we reflected, that even these restraints served to heighten our desires. Compare those charming times with our present situation. Violent emotions, disquieting fears, endless suspicions, perpetual alarms, are the melancholy substitutes of our former gay companions. Where is that zeal for prudence and discretion which inspired every thought, directed every action, and sweetened and refined the delicacy of our love? Is the passion itself altered, or rather are not we most miserably changed? Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate and lasting; they are now degenerated into transports, resembling rather the fury of madness than the caresses of love. A pure and holy flame once lived in our hearts, but now we are sunk into mere common lovers, through a blind gratification of sensual indulgencies. We can now think ourselves sufficiently happy, if jealousy can give a poignancy to those pleasures, which even the very brutes can taste without it.

This, my dear friend, is the subject which nearly concerns us both, and which indeed pains me more on your account than my own. I say nothing of the distress which is more immediately mine. Your disposition, tender as it is, can sufficiently feel it: consider the shame of my present situation, and if you still love me, give a sigh to my lost honour. My crime is unatonable, my tears then I should hope will be as lasting as my dishonour. Do not you then, who are the cause of this sorrow, seek to deprive me of this also. My only hope is founded in its continuance. Hard as my lot is, it would be still more deplorable if I could ever be comforted. The being reconciled to disgrace is the last, worst state of the abandoned.

I am but too well acquainted with all the circumstances of my condition, and yet amidst all my horror, all my grief, I have one comfort left: it is the only one, but it is solid, it is pleasing. You, my dear friend, are its constant object; and since I dare no longer consider myself, I take the greater satisfaction in thinking of you. The great share of self esteem which you, alas, have taken from me, is now transferred entirely to yourself; and what should have been your crime, is with me your apology, and endearment. Love, even that fatal love which has proved my destruction, is become the material circumstance in your favour. You are exalted while I am abased; nay, my very abasement is the cause of your exaltation. Be henceforward then my only hope. Your business is to justify my crime by your conduct. Excuse it at least by your virtuous demeanor. May your deserts prove a covering to my disgrace, and let the number of your virtues make the loss of mine less sensible to my view. Since I am no longer any thing, be thou my whole existence. The only honour I have left is solely centered in thee; and while thou in any degree art respected, I can never be wholly despised or rejected.

However sorry I may be for the quick recovery of my health, yet my artifice will no longer stand me in any stead. My countenance will soon give the lie to my pretences, and I shall no longer be able to impose on my parents a feigned indisposition. Be quick then in taking the steps we have agreed on; before I am forced to resume my usual business in my family. I perceive but too plainly, that my mother is suspicious, and continually watches us. My father, indeed, seems to know nothing of the matter. His pride has been hitherto our security. Perhaps he thinks it impossible, that a mere common tutor can be in love with his daughter. But after all, you know his temper. If you do not prevent him, he will you; do not then through a fond desire of gaining your usual access, banish yourself entirely from the possibility of a return. Take my advice and speak to my mother in time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements, in order to prevent your teaching me any longer; and let us give up the satisfaction of such frequent interviews that we may make sure, at least, of meeting sometimes. Consider, if you are once shut out, it is for ever; but if you can resolve to deny yourself for a time, you may then come when you please, and in time and by management may repeat your visits often, without any fear of suspicion. I will tell you this evening some other schemes I have in view for our more frequent meeting, and you will then be convinced that that constant cousin, whom we used so grievously to detest, will now be very useful to two lovers, whom in truth she ought never to have left alone.

Letter XXXIII. From Eloisa.

Ah! my dear friend, what a miserable asylum for lovers is a crowded assembly! What inconceivable torment, to see each other under the restraints of what is called good breeding! Surely absence were a thousand times more supportable! Is calmness and composure compatible with such emotions? Can the lover be self-consistent, or with what attention can he consider such a number of objects, when one alone possesses his whole soul? When the heart is fired, can the body be at rest? You cannot conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you were coming. Your name seemed a reproach to me, and I could not help imagining that the whole company’s attention was fixed upon me alone. I was immediately lost, and blushed so exceedingly, that my cousin, who observed me, was obliged to cover me with her fan, and pretend to whisper me in the ear. This very artifice, simple as it was, increased my apprehensions, and I trembled for fear they should perceive it. In short, every the most minute circumstance was a fresh subject for alarm; never did I so fully experience the truth of that well known axiom, that a guilty conscience needs no accuser.

Clara pretended to observe that you was equally embarrassed, uncertain what to do, not daring either to advance or retire, to take notice of me or not, and looking all around the room to give you a pretence, as she said, to look, at last, on me. As I recovered from my confusion by degrees, I perceived your distress, till, by Mrs. Belon’s coming up to you, you was relieved.

I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner of living, which is imbittered with so much constraint, and sweetened with so little pleasure, is not suited to us. Our passion is too noble to bear perpetual chains. These public assemblies are only fit for those who are strangers to love, or who can with ease dispense with ceremony. My anxieties are too disquieting, and your indiscretions too dangerous; I cannot always have a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diversion. Let us return, let us return to that calm state of life from whence I have so inadvertently drawn you. It was that situation which gave rise and vigour to our passion; perhaps too it may be weakened by this dissipated manner of living. The truest passions are formed and nourished in retirement. In the busy circle of the world there is no time for receiving impressions, and even, when received, they are considerably weakened by the variety of avocations which continually occur. Retirement too best suits my melancholy, which like my love can be supported only by thy dear image. I had rather see you tender and passionate in my heart, than under constraint and dissipation in an assembly. There may perhaps come a time, when I shall be forced to a much closer retreat. O that that time were already come! Common prudence, as well as my own inclinations, require that I should inure myself betimes to habits which necessity may demand. Oh, if the crime itself could produce the cause of its atonement! The pleasing hope of being one day——but I shall inadvertently say more than I am willing on the design I have in view. Forgive me this one secret, my dear friend; my heart shall never conceal any thing that would give you pleasure: yet you must, for a time, be ignorant of this. All I can say of it at present is, that love, which was the occasion of our misfortunes, ought to furnish us with relief. You may reason and comment upon this hint as much as you please; but I positively forbid all questions.

Letter XXXIV. The Answer.

No, non vedrete mai
Cambiar gl’ affeti mici,
Bei lumi onde imparai
A sospirar d’amor.

How greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs. Belon for the pleasure she procured me! Forgive me, my dearest Eloisa, when I tell you, that I even dared to take some pleasure in your distress, and that your very anxiety afforded me most exquisite delight. Oh, what raptures did I feel at those stolen glances, that downcast modesty, that care with which you avoided meeting my eyes! What then, think you, was the employment of your too, too happy lover? Was he indeed converting with Mrs. Belon? Did you really think so, my lovely Eloisa? Oh, no, enchanting fair! he was much more worthily employed. With what an amazing sympathy did my heart share each emotion of thine! With what a greedy impatience did I explore the beautiful symmetry of thy person! Thy love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole soul, which was hardly able to contain the ravishing idea. The only allay to all this pleasure was, that I feasted at your expense, and felt the tender sensations which you, alas, was absolutely unable to participate. Can I tell one word that Mrs. Belon said to me? Could I have told it at the very time she was speaking? Do I know what answers I made? or did she understand me at all? But indeed how could she comprehend the discourse of one who spoke without thinking, and answered without conceiving the question.

Com’ buom, che par ch’ ascolti, e nulla intende.

I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She has since told all the world, and perhaps you among the rest, that I have not common sense; but what is still worse, not a single grain of wit, and that I am as dull and foolish as my books. But no matter how she thinks, or what she says of me. Is not Eloisa the sole mistress of my fate, and does not she alone determine my future rank and estimation? Let the rest of the world say of me what they think proper; myself, my understanding, and my accomplishments, all absolutely depend on the value you are pleased to fix on them.

Be assured, neither Mrs. Belon, nor any superior beauty, could ever delude my attention from Eloisa. If after all this, you still doubt my sincerity, and can injure my love and your own charms so much as still to suspect me, pray tell me, how I became acquainted with every minute particular of your conduct? Did not I see you shine among the inferior beauties, like the sun among the stars, that were eclipsed by your radiance? Did not I see the young fellows hovering about your chair, and buzzing in your ear? Did not I perceive you singled out from the rest of your sex to be the only object of universal admiration? Did not I perceive their studied assiduities, their continual compliments, and your cold and modest indifference, infinitely more affecting than the most haughty demeanor you could possibly have assumed? Yes, my Eloisa, I saw the effect produced by the sight of your snowy delicate arm, when you pulled off your glove; I saw too that the young stranger who picked it up seemed tempted to kiss the charming hand that received it. And did not I see a still bolder swain, whose steady stare obliged you to add another pin to your tucker? All this may perhaps convince you I was not so absent as you imagine; not that I was the least jealous; for I know your heart was not cast in such a mold as to be susceptible of every passion: nor will you, I hope, think otherwise of mine.

Let us then return to that calm, blest retirement, which I quitted with such regret. My heart finds no satisfaction in the tumultuous hurry of the world. Its empty tinsel pleasures dispose it only to lament the want of more substantial joys the more feelingly, and make it prefer its own real sufferings to the melancholy train of continual disappointments. Surely, Eloisa, we may attain much more solid satisfaction, in any situation, than under our present restraint. And yet you seem to forget it. To be so near each other for a whole fortnight without meeting! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured enraptured heart! Absence itself would be infinitely more supportable. Tell me to what end you can make use of a discretion, which occasions more misfortunes than it is able to prevent? Of what importance can it be to prolong a life, in which every succeeding moment brings fresh punishment? Were it not better, yes surely a thousand times, to meet once more at all events, and then submit to our fate with resignation.

I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain know the utmost of the secret you conceal. There never was a discovery that could interest me so deeply: but all my endeavours are in vain. I can however be as silent as you would wish, and repress my forward curiosity. But may I not hope soon to be satisfied? Perhaps you are still in the castle-building system. Oh thou dear object of my affections! surely now it is high time to improve all our schemes into reality.

P. S. I had almost forgot to tell you that M. Roguin made me the offer of a company in the regiment he is raising for the king of Sardinia. I was highly pleased at this brave man’s signal mark of his esteem, and thanking him for his kindness, told him, the shortness of my sight, and great love of a studious and sedentary life, unfitted me for so active an employment. My love can claim no great share in this sacrifice. Every one in my opinion owes his life to his country, which therefore he should not risk in the service of those princes to whom he is no ways indebted; much less is he at liberty to let himself out for hire, and turn the noblest profession in the world into that of a vile mercenary. These maxims I claim by inheritance from my father; and happy enough should I be, could I imitate him as well in his steady adherence to his duty, and love to his country. He never would enter into the service of any foreign prince, but in the year 1712, acquired great reputation in fighting for his country: he served in many engagements, in one of which he was wounded, and at the battle of Wilmerghen was so fortunate as, in the fight of general Sacconex, to take a standard from the enemy.

Letter XXXV. From Eloisa.

I could never think, my dear friend, that what I hinted of Mrs. Belon in jest could have excited so long or so serious an explanation. An over eagerness in one’s own defence is sometimes productive of the very reverse of its intention, and fixes a lasting suspicion instead of removing or lightening the accusation. The most trifling incidents, when attended to minutely, immediately grow up into events of importance. Our situation indeed secures us from making this case our own; for our hearts are too busy to listen to mere punctilios; though all disputes between lovers on points of little moment, have too often a much deeper foundation than they imagine.

I am rather glad however of the opportunity which this accident has given me, of saying somewhat to you on the subject of jealousy; a subject which, alas, but too nearly concerns me. I see, my dear friend, by the similitude of our tempers and near alliance of our dispositions, that love alone will be the great business of our lives: and surely when such impressions as we feel have been once made, love must either extinguish or absorb every other passion. The least relaxation in our passion must inevitably produce a most dangerous lethargy: a total apathy, an indifference to every enjoyment, and a disrelish of every present comfort would very soon take place if our affections were once cooled, and indeed life itself would then become a burthen. With respect to myself, you cannot but perceive, that the present transports of my passion could alone veil over the horror of my disastrous situation, and the sad alternative proposed to my choice, is the extravagance of love, or a death of despair. Judge then if after this I am able to determine a point on which the happiness or misery of my future life so absolutely depends.

If I may be allowed to know any thing of my own temper and disposition, though I am oftentimes distracted with violent emotions, it is but seldom that their influence can hurry me into action. My sorrows must have preyed on my heart for a long time before I could ever be prevailed on to discover the source of them to their author; and being firmly persuaded that there can be no offence without intention, I would much rather submit to a thousand real subjects of complaint than ever come to an explanation. A disposition of this kind will neither easily give way to suspicion, nor be anxiously concerned at the jealousy of others. Oh, shield me, gracious heaven, from the tormenting pangs of causeless jealousy! I am fully assured that your heart was made for mine and for no other; but self-deceit is of all others the most easy imposition: a transient liking is often mistaken for a real passion, as it is difficult to distinguish the effects of sudden fancy from the result of a sincere and settled affection. If you yourself can doubt your own constancy without any reason, how could you blame me were I capable of mistrusting you? But that way leads to misery. So cruel a doubt as that would imbitter the remainder of my life. I should sigh in secret without complaining, and die an inconsolable martyr to my passion.

But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune, the idea of which shocks my very soul. Swear to me, my dear, dear friend! but not by love, for lover’s oaths are never made but with intention to be broken; but swear by the sacred name of honour, which you highly revere, that I shall ever be the confident of your inmost thoughts, the repository of all your secrets, the witness of all your emotions, and if perchance, (which gracious heaven avert!) if any change should take place in your affections, swear moreover that you will instantly inform me of so interesting a revolution. Think not to excuse yourself by alleging, that such a change is impossible. I believe, I hope, nay, I am well assured of your sincerity; oblige me, however, and prevent all false alarms; take from me the possibility of doubting, and secure my present peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard soever it might be, were much better than through ignorance of the truth to be perpetually exposed to the tortures of imaginary evils. Some comfort, some alleviation of my sorrows would arise from your remorse; though my affections must cease, you would necessarily become the partner of my griefs: and even my own anxiety, when poured into your breast, would seem less distracting.

’Tis on this account, my dear friend, that I congratulate myself more especially on the fond choice of my heart; that honour strengthens and confirms the bond which affection first begun; and that my security depends not on the violence of passion, but the more sober and settled dictates of principle: ’tis this which cements, at the same time that it ensures, the affections; ’tis this virtue that must reconcile us to our woes. Had it been my sad misfortune to have fixed my affections on a lover void of principle, even supposing those affections should continue unchangeable, yet what security should I have of the continuance of his lover? By what methods could I silence those perpetual misgivings that would be ever rising in my mind, and in what manner could I be assured that I was not imposed on, either by his artifice or my own credulity? But thou, my dear, my honourable friend, who hast no dark designs to cover, no secret frauds to practise, thou wilt, I am well assured, preserve the constancy thou hast vowed. You will never be shamed out of your duty, through the false bashfulness of owning an infidelity, and when you can no longer love your Eloisa, you will frankly tell her——yes, you will say, my Eloisa I do not——I cannot; indeed I cannot, finish the sentence.

What do you think of my proposal? I am sure it is the only one I can think of to pluck up jealousy by the root. There is a certain delicacy, a tender confidence which persuades me to rely so entirely on your sincerity, as to make me incapable of believing any accusation which came not from your own lips. These are the good effects I expect from your promise; for though I should easily believe, that you are as fickle as the rest of your sex, yet I can never be persuaded, that you are equally false and deceitful, and however I might doubt of the constancy of your affections, I can never bring myself to suspect your honour. What a pleasure do I feel in taking precautions in this matter, which I hope will always be useless, and to prevent the very possibility of a change, which I am persuaded will never happen! Oh how delightful is it to talk of jealousy to so faithful a lover! If I thought you capable of inconstancy I should not talk thus. My poor heart would not be so discreet in the time of so much danger, and the least real distrust would deprive me of the prudence necessary for my security.

This subject, honoured master, may be more fully discussed this evening; for your two humble scholars are to have the honour of supping with you at my uncle’s. Your learned commentaries on the Gazette have raised you so highly in his esteem, that no great artifice was wanting to persuade him to invite you. The daughter has put her harpsicord in tune, the father has been poring over Lamberti, and I shall perhaps repeat the lesson I first learnt in Clarens grove. You who are a master of every science must adapt your knowledge and instructions to our several capacities. Mr. Orbe (who is invited you may be sure) has had notice given him to prepare a dissertation on the nature of the king of Naples’s future homage; this will give us three an opportunity of going into my cousin’s apartment. There, vassal, on thy knees, before thy sovereign mistress, thy hands clasped in hers, and in the presence of her chancellor, thou shalt vow truth and loyalty on every occasion; I do not say eternal love, because that is a thing which no one can absolutely promise; but truth, sincerity, and frankness are in every one’s disposal; to these therefore thou shalt swear. You need not vow eternal fealty; but you must and shall vow to commit no act of felonious intention, and at least to declare open war before you shake off the yoke. This done, you shall seal it with an embrace and be owned and acknowledged for a true and loyal knight.

Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I have formed of this evening have given me all these spirits. I shall be doubly blessed to see you a partaker of my joy.

Letter XXXVI. From Eloisa.

Kiss this welcome letter, and leap for joy at the news I am going to tell you: but be assured that though my emotions should prove less violent, I am not a whit less rejoiced. My father being obliged to go to Bern on account of a law suit, and from thence to Soleure for his pension, proposes to take my mother along with him, to which she is the more willing to consent, as she hopes to receive benefit from the journey and change of air. They were so obliging as to offer to take me along with them. I did not think proper to say all I thought on the occasion; but their not being able to find convenient room for me made them change their intentions with respect to my going, and they are now all endeavouring to comfort me for the disappointment. I was obliged to assume a very melancholy air, as if almost inconsolable; and, ridiculous as it is, I have dissembled so long, that I am sometimes apt to fancy I feel a real sorrow.

I am not however to be absolutely my own mistress while my parents are absent, but to live at my uncle’s; so that during the whole time I shall be always with my constant cousin. My mother choses to leave her own woman behind; Bab, therefore, will be considered as a kind of governess to me. But we need not be very apprehensive of those whom we have no need either to bribe or to trust, but who may be easily got rid of whenever they grow troublesome, by means of any trifling allurement.

You will readily conceive, I dare say, what opportunities we shall have of meeting during their absence; but our discretion must furnish those restraints, which our situation has taken off for a while, and we must then voluntarily submit to that reserve, to which at present we are obliged by sad necessity. You must, when I am at my cousin’s, come no oftener than you did before, for fear of giving her offence, and I hope there will be no need of reminding you of the assiduous respect and civility, which her sex and the sacred laws of hospitality require; and that you yourself will sufficiently consider what is due to the friendship that gives an asylum to your love. I know your eager disposition; but I am convinced, at the same time, that there are bounds which can restrain it. Had you never governed your violence by the known laws of honour, you had not been troubled at present with any admonitions, at least with none from me.

But why that downcast look, that louring air? why repine at the restraints which duty prescribes? Be it thy Eloisa’s care to sooth and soften them. Had you ever cause to repent of having listened to my advice? Near the flowery banks of the head of the river Vevey there stands a solitary hut, which serves sometimes as a shelter to sportsmen, and surely may also shelter lovers. Hard by the mansion house which belongs to Mr. Orbe are several thatched dairy houses sufficiently remote, which may serve to cover love and pleasure, ever the truest friends to rustic simplicity. The prudent milkmaids will keep the secret; for they have often need of secrecy. The streams which water the adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering shrubs, and charming shady groves, while at some little distance the thickness of the neighbouring wood seems to promise a more gloomy and secluded retreat.

Al bel seggio riposto, ombroso e fosco,
Ne mai pastori appressan, ne bifolci.

In this delightful place, no vestiges are seen of human toil, no appearance of studied and laborious art; every object around presents only a view of the tender care of nature, our common mother. Here then, my dear friend, we shall be only under nature’s directions, and know no other laws but hers. At Mr. Orbe’s invitation, Clara has already persuaded her father to take the diversion of hunting for two or three days in this part of the world, and to carry the two inseparables with him. These inseparables have others likewise closely connected with them, as you know but too well. The one assuming the character of master of the house, will consequently do the honours, while the other with less parade will do the honours of a dairy-house, and this rural hut dedicated to love, will be to them the temple of Gnidus. To succeed the more effectually in this charming project, there will be wanting a little previous contrivance, which may be easily settled between us, and the very consideration of which will form a part of those pleasures they are intended to produce. Adieu, my dear life! I leave off abruptly for fear of being surprized. The heart of thy devoted Eloisa anticipates, alas, too eagerly the pleasures of the dairy-house.

P. S. Upon second thoughts, I begin to be of opinion that we may meet every day without any great danger; at my cousin’s every other day, and in the field on every intermediate one.

Letter XXXVII. From Eloisa.

They left me this very morning; my tender father and still fonder mother, took leave of me but just now, overwhelming their beloved daughter (too unworthy, alas, of all their affection) with repeated caresses. For my own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance at this separation! I embraced them with an outward appearance of concern, while my ungrateful and unnatural heart was leaping within me for joy. Where, alas, is now that happy time, when I led an innocent life under their continual observation, when my only joy was their approbation, my only concern their absence or neglect? Behold now the melancholy reverse! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the very thought of them gives me pain, and the recollection of myself makes me blush with confusion. All my virtuous ideas now vanish away like a dream, and leave in their stead empty disquietudes and barren remorse, which, bitter as they are, are nevertheless insufficient to lead me to repentance. These cruel reflections have brought on all that sorrow, which the taking leave of my parents was unable to effect. And yet immediately on their departure, I felt an agony of grief. While Bab was setting the things to rights, I went into my mother’s room as it were mechanically, without knowing what I did, and seeing some of her cloaths lying scattered about, I took them up one by one, kissed them and bathed them with my tears. This vent to my anxiety afforded me present ease, and it was some comfort to me to reflect, that I was still awake to nature’s soft emotions, and that her gentle fires were not entirely extinguished in my soul. In vain, cruel tyrant! dost thou seek to subject this weak and tender heart, to thy absolute dominion: notwithstanding all thy fond illusions, it still retains the sentiments of duty, still cherishes and reveres parental rights, much more sacred than thy own.

Forgive me, my dear friend, these involuntary emotions, nor imagine that I carry these reflections farther than I ought. Love’s soft moments are not to be expected amidst the tortures of anxiety. I cannot conceal my sufferings from you, and yet I would not overwhelm you with them; nay, you must know them, though not to share, yet to soften them. But into whose bosom dare I pour them, if not into, thine? Are not you my faithful friend, my prudent counselor, my tender comfort? Have not you been fostering in my soul the love of virtue, when, alas! that virtue itself was no longer within me? How often should I have sunk under the pressure of my afflictions had not thy pitying hand relieved me from my sorrows, and wiped away my tears? It is your tender care alone supports me. I dare not abuse myself while you continue to esteem me, and I flatter myself, that if I were indeed contemptible, none of you would or could so honour me with your regard. I am flying to the arms of my dear cousin, or rather to the heart of a tender sister, there to repose the load of grief with which I am oppressed. Come thither this evening, and contribute to restore to me that peace and serenity, of which I have long been deprived.

Letter XXXVIII. To Eloisa.

No, Eloisa, it is impossible! I can never bear to see you every day, if I am always to be charmed in the manner I was last night. My affection must ever bear proportion to the discovery of your beauties, and you are an inexhaustible source of endless wonder and delight, beyond my utmost hopes, beyond my most sanguine expectations! What a delicious evening to me was the last! What amazing raptures did I feel! O enchanting sorrow! How infinitely doth the pleasing languor of a heart softened by concern, surpass the boisterous pleasures, the foolish gaiety, and the extravagant joy with which a boundless passion inspires the ungovernable lover! O peaceful bliss! never, never shall thy pleasing idea be torn from my memory! Heavens, what an enchanting sight! it was extasy itself, to see two such perfect beauties embrace each other so affectionately; your face reclined upon her breast, mixing your tender tears together, and bedewing that charming bosom, just as heaven refreshes a bed of new blown flowers. I grew jealous of such a friendship, and thought there was some thing more interesting in it than even in love itself. I was grieved at the impossibility of consoling you, without disturbing you at the same time by the violence of my emotion. No, nothing, nothing upon earth is capable of exciting so pleasing a sensation as your mutual caresses. Even the sight of two lovers would have been less delightful.

Oh how could I have admired, nay, adored your dear cousin, if the divine Eloisa herself had not taken up all my thoughts! You throw, my dearest angel, an irresistible charm on every thing that surrounds you. Your gown, your gloves, fan, work, nay every thing that was the object of my outward senses, enchanted my very soul; and you yourself compleatd the enchantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear, dear Eloisa, nor deprive me of all sensation, by making my enjoyment too exquisite. My transports approach so nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be apprehensive I shall lose my reason. Let me, at least, be sensible of my felicity; let me at least have a rational idea of those raptures, which are more sublime, and more penetrating, than my glowing imagination could paint. How can you think yourself disgraced? This very thought is a sure proof that your senses likewise are affected. Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I should believe you to be of a more exalted purer species, if the violence of my passion did not clearly evince, that we are of a kindred frame. No human being conceives your excellence; you are unknown even to yourself; my heart alone knows and can estimate its Eloisa. Were you only an idol of worship, could you have been enraptured with the dull homage of admiring mortals? Were you only an angel, how much you would lose of your real value!

Tell me, if you can, how such a passion as mine is capable of increasing? I am ignorant of the means, yet am but too sensible of the fact. You are indeed ever present with me, yet there are some days in which thy beautiful image is peculiarly before me, and haunts me as it were with such amazing assiduity that neither time nor place can deprive me of the delightful object. I even believe you left it with me in the dairy-house, at the conclusion of your last letter. Since you mentioned that rural spot, I have been continually rambling in the fields, and am always insensibly led towards the same place. Every time I behold it, it appears still more enchanting.

Non vide il mondo si leggiadri rami,
Ne mosse’l vento mai si verdi frondi.

I find the country more delightful, the verdure fresher and livelier, the air more temperate and serene than ever I did before; even the feathered songsters of the sky seem to tune their tender throats with more harmony and pleasure; the murmuring rills invite to love-inspiring dalliance, while the blossoms of the vine regale me from afar with the choicest perfumes. Some secret charm enlivens every object, or raises my sensations to a more exquisite degree. I am tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns herself to make a nuptial bed for your happy lover, worthy of the passion which he feels, and the goddess he adores. O, my Eloisa, my dearer better half! let us immediately add to these beauties of the spring, the presence of two faithful lovers. Let us carry the true sentiments of pleasures to places which comparatively afford but an empty idea of it. Let us animate all nature which is absolutely dead without the genial warmth of love. Am I yet to stay three days, three whole days? Oh what an age to a fond expecting lover! Intoxicated with my passion, I wait that happy moment with the most melancholy impatience. Oh how happy should we be, if heaven would annihilate those tedious intervals which retard the blissful moment!

Letter XXXIX. From Eloisa.

There is not a single emotion of your heart, which I do not share with the tenderest concern. But talk no more of pleasures, whilst others, who have deserved much better than either of us, are suffering under the pressure of the severest afflictions. Read the inclosed, and then be composed if you can. I indeed, who am well acquainted with the good girl who wrote it, was not able to proceed without shedding tears of sorrow and compassion. The recollection it gave me of my blameable negligence, touched my very soul, and, to my bitter confusion, I perceive but too plainly, that a forgetfulness of the principal points of my duty, has extended itself to all those of inferior consideration. I had promised this poor child to take care of her; I recommended her to my mother, and kept her in some degree under my continual inspection: but, alas! when I became unable to protect myself, I abandoned her too, and exposed her to worse misfortunes than even I myself have fallen into. I shudder to think that had I not been roused from my carelessness, in two days time my ward would have been ruined; her own indigence, and the snares of others, would have ruined, for ever ruined, a modest and discreet girl, who may hereafter possibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear friend! can there be such vile creatures upon earth, who would extort from the depth of misery what the heart alone should give? That any one can submit to receive the tender embraces of love from the arms of famine itself!

Can you be unmoved at my Fanny’s filial piety, at the integrity of her sentiments, and the simplicity of her innocence? But are you not affected with the uncommon tenderness of the lover, who will sell even himself to assist his poor mistress? Would not you think yourself too happy to be the instrument of uniting a couple so well formed for each other? If we, alas, (whose situation so much resembles theirs) do not compassionate lovers who are united by nature, but divided by misfortunes, where else can they seek relief with a probability of success? For my own part, I have determined to make some amends for my neglect, by contributing my utmost endeavours to unite these two young people. Heaven will, I hope, assist the generous undertaking, and my success may prove a good omen to us. I desire, nay, conjure you, by all that is good and dear to you, to set out for Neufchatel the very moment you receive this, or to-morrow morning at farthest. You will then go to Mr. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young man’s release; spare neither money nor intreaties. Take Fanny’s letter along with you. No breast, that is not absolutely void of all sentiments of humanity, can read it without emotion. In short, whatever money it may cost, whatever pleasure of her own it may defer, be sure not to return without an entire free discharge for Claudius Anet; if you do, you may be assured, I shall never enjoy a single moment’s satisfaction during the remainder of my life.

I am aware that your heart will be raising many objections to the proposal I have made; but can you think, that I have not foreseen all those objections? Yet, notwithstanding them all, I repeat my request; for virtue must either be an empty name, or it requires of us some mortifying self-denials. Our appointment, my friend, my dear, dear friend, though lost for the present, may be made again and again. A few hours of the most agreeable intercourse vanish like a flash of lightening; but when the happiness of an honest couple is in your power, think, only think, what you are preparing for hereafter, if you neglect the opportunity; on the use then of the present time, depends an eternity of contentment or remorse. Forgive such frequent repetitions, they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have said, more than was necessary to any honest man, and an hundred times too much to my dear friend. I well know how you abominate that cruel turn of mind which hardens us to the calamities of others. You yourself have told me a thousand times, that he is a wretch indeed who scruples giving up one day of pleasure to the duties of humanity.

Letter XL. From Fanny Regnard to Eloisa.

Honoured Madam,

Forgive this interruption, from a poor girl in despair, who being ignorant what to do, has taken the liberty of addressing herself to your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never weary of comforting the afflicted, and I am so unfortunate, alas, that I have tired all but God Almighty, and you, with my complaints. I am very sorry I was obliged to leave the mistress you had been so kind to put me apprentice to, but on my mother’s death, (which happened this winter) I was obliged to return home to my poor father, who is confined to his bed by the palsy.

I have never forgotten the advice you gave my mother, to try to settle me with some honest man, who might be of use to the family. Claud Anet (formerly in your father’s service) is a very sober discreet person, master of a good trade, and has taken a liking to me. Having been already so much indebted to your bounty, I did not dare to apply to you for any farther assistance, so that he has been our only support during the whole winter. He was to have married me this spring, and indeed had set his heart on it; but I have been so teased for three years rent due last Easter, that not knowing where to get so much money, the young man listed at once in M. Marveilleux’s company, and brought me all the money he had received for enlisting. M. Merveilleux stays at Neufchatel about a week longer, and Claud Anet is to set out in three or four days with the rest of the recruits. So that we have neither time nor money to marry, and he is going to leave me without any help. If, through your interest or the Baron’s, five or six weeks longer might be given us, we would endeavour in that time either to get married, or repay the young man his money. But I am sure he can never be prevailed on to take the money again.

I received this morning some great offers from a very rich gentleman, but thank God, I have refused them. He told me, he would come again to-morrow to know my mind; but I desired him not to give himself so much trouble, and that he knew it already. By God’s assistance, he shall have the same answer to-morrow. I might indeed apply to the parish; but one is so despised after that, that my misfortunes are better than such a relief, and Claud Anet has too much pride to think of me after this. Forgive the liberty I have taken; you are the only person I could think of, and I feel so distressed, that I can write no more about it.

I am,
Your humble servant to command.
Fanny Regnard.

Letter XLI. The Answer.

I have been wanting in point of memory, and you Fanny have been deficient in your confidence in me; in short, we have both of us been to blame, but I am the most inexcusable. However, I shall now endeavour to repair the injury which my neglect may have occasioned. Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to satisfy your more immediate wants, and will be with you again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman should return. My cousin and I propose calling on you in the evening; for I know you cannot leave your poor father alone, and indeed I shall be glad of this opportunity, to inspect your economy a little.

You need not be uneasy on Claud Anet’s account; my father is from home, but we shall do all we can towards his immediate release. Be assured, that I will neither forget you, nor your generous lover. Adieu, my dear, and may God ever bless you. I think you much in the right for not having recourse to public charity. Such steps as those, are never to be taken, while the hearts and purses of benevolent individuals are open, and accessible.

Letter XLII. To Eloisa.

I have received your letter, and shall set out this instant. This is all the answer I shall make. O Eloisa! how could you cruelly suppose me possessed of such a selfish unfeeling heart? But you command, and shall be obeyed. I would rather die a thousand times, than forfeit your esteem.

Letter XLIII. To Eloisa.

I arrived at Neufchatel yesterday morning, and on enquiry was told, that M. Merveilleux was just gone into the country. I followed him immediately, but as he was out a hunting all day, I was obliged to wait till the evening, before I could speak with him. I told him the cause of my journey, and desired he would set a price on Claud Anet’s discharge; to which he raised a number of objections. I then concluded, that the most effectual method of answering them, would be to increase my offers, which I did in proportion as his difficulties multiplied. But finding, after some time, that I was not likely to succeed, I took my leave, having previously desired the liberty to wait on him the next morning; determined in my own mind not to stir out of the house a second time, till I had obtained my request, by dint of larger offers, frequent importunity, or in short by whatever means I could think most effectual. I arose early next morning to put this resolution in practice, and was just going to mount my horse, when I received a note from M. Merveilleux with the young man’s discharge, in due form and order. The contents of the note were these.

“Inclosed, Sir, is the discharge, you request. I denied it to your pecuniary offers, but have granted it in consideration of your charitable design, and desire you would not think that I am to be bribed into a good action.”

You will easily conceive by your own satisfaction, what joy I must have felt. But why is it not as compleat as it ought to be? I cannot possibly avoid going to thank, and indeed to reimburse M. Merveilleux, and if this visit, necessary as it is, should retard my return a whole day, as I am apprehensive it will, is he not generous at my expense? But no matter: I have done my duty to Eloisa, and am satisfied. Oh what a happiness it is thus to reconcile benevolence to love! to unite in the same action the charms of conscious virtue, with the soft sensations of the tendered affection. I own freely, Eloisa, that I began my journey, full of sorrow and impatience; I even dared to reproach you with feeling too much the calamities of others, while you remained insensible to my sufferings, as if I alone of all created beings had been unworthy your compassion. I thought it quite barbarous in you, after having disappointed me of my sweetest hopes, thus unnecessarily and wantonly as it were to deprive me of a happiness which you had voluntarily promised. All these secret repinings are now happily changed into a fund of contentment, and solid satisfaction, to which I have hitherto lived a stranger. I have already enjoyed the recompense you bade me expect; you spake from experience. Oh! what an amazing kind of empire is yours, which can convert even disappointment into pleasure, and cause the same satisfaction in obeying you, as could result from the greatest self-gratification! Oh my dearest, kindest Eloisa, you are indeed an angel; if any thing could be wanting to confirm the truth of this, your unbounded empire over my soul would be a sufficient confirmation. Doubtless it partakes much more of the divine nature, than of the human; and who can resist the power of heaven? And to what purpose should I cease to love you, since you must ever remain the object of my adoration?

P. S. According to my calculation we shall have five or six days to ourselves before your mother returns. Will it be impossible for you during this interval to undertake a pilgrimage to the dairy-house?

Letter XLIV. From Eloisa.

Repine not, my dear friend, at this unexpected return. It is really more advantageous to us than you can possibly imagine, and indeed, supposing our contrivances could have effected what our regard to appearance has induced us to give up, we should have succeeded no better. Judge what would have been the consequence, had we followed our inclinations. I should have gone into the country but the very evening before my mother’s return, should have been sent for them thence, before I could have possibly given you any notice, and must consequently have left you in the most dreadful anxiety; we should have parted just on the eve of our imaginary bliss, and the disappointment would have been cruelly aggravated by the near approach of our felicity. Besides, notwithstanding the utmost precautions we could have taken, it would have been known that we were both in the country; perhaps too, they might have heard that we were together, it would have been suspected at least, and that were enough. An imprudent avidity of the present moment, would have deprived us of every future resource, and the remorse for having neglected such an act of benevolence, would have imbittered the remainder of our lives.

Compare then, I beseech you, our present situation with that I have been describing. First, your absence has been productive of several good effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mother, that you have been but seldom at my cousin’s. She is acquainted with the motives of your journey; this may probably prove a means of raising you in her esteem, and how think you, can they conceive it possible that two young people who have an affection for each other should agree to separate, at the very time they are left most at liberty? What an artifice have we employed to destroy suspicions which are but too well founded! The only stratagem in my opinion consistent with honour, is the carrying our discretion to such an incredible height, that, what is in reality the utmost effort of self-denial, may be mistaken for a token of indifference. How delightful, my dear friend, must a passion thus concealed be to those who enjoy it! Add to this the pleasing consciousness of having united two despairing lovers, and contributed to the happiness of so deserving a couple. You have seen my Fanny; tell me, is not she a charming girl? Does not she really deserve every thing you have done for her? Is not she too beautiful and too unfortunate to remain long unmarried, without some disaster? And do you think that Claud Anet, whose natural good disposition has miraculously preserved him during three years service, could have resolution to continue three years more without becoming as perfidious, and as wretched as all those of that profession? Instead of that, they love, and will be united, they are poor, and will be relieved; they are honest, and will be enabled to continue so; for my father has promised them a competent provision. What a number of advantages then has your kindness procured to them, and to ourselves; not to mention the additional obligations you have conferred on me? Such, my friend, are the certain effects of sacrifices to virtue; which, though they are difficult to perform, are always grateful in remembrance. No one ever repented of having performed a good action.

I suppose, you will say, with the constant, that all this is mere preaching, and indeed it is but too true that I no more practise what I preach than those who are preachers by profession. However, if my discourses are not so elegant, I have the satisfaction to find that mine are not so entirely thrown away as theirs. I do not deny it, my dear friend, that I would willingly add as many virtues to your character, as a fatal indulgence to love has taken away from mine; and Eloisa herself having forfeited my regard, I would gladly esteem her in you. Perfect affection is all that is required on your part, and the consequence will flow easy and natural. With what pleasure ought you to reflect, that you are continually increasing those obligations, which love itself engages to pay!

My cousin has been made privy to the conversation you had with her father, about M. Orbe, and seems to think herself as much indebted to you, as if we had never been obliged to her in our lives. Gracious heaven, how every particular incident contributes to my happiness! How dearly am I beloved, and how I am charmed with their affection! Father, mother, friend and lover, all conspire in their tender concern for my happiness, and notwithstanding my eager endeavours to requite them, I am always either prevented or outdone. It should seem, as if all the tenderest feelings in nature verged towards my heart, whilst I, alas, have but one sensation to enjoy them.

I forgot to mention a visit you are to receive to-morrow morning. ’Tis from L. B—— lately come from Geneva, where he has resided about eight months; he told me he had seen you at Sion, in his return from Italy. He found you very melancholy, but speaks of you in general in the manner you yourself would wish, and in which I have long thought. He commended you so a propos to my father yesterday, that he has prejudiced me already very much in his favour: and indeed his conversation is sensible, lively and spirited. In reciting heroic actions, he raises his voice, and his eyes sparkle as men usually do who are capable of performing the deeds they relate. He speaks also emphatically in matters of taste, especially of the Italian music which he extols to the very skies. He often reminded me of my poor brother. But his lordship seems not to have sacrificed much to the graces; his discourse in general is rather nervous than elegant, and even his understanding seems to want a little polishing.

Letter XLV. To Eloisa.

I was reading your last letter, the second time, only, when Lord B—— came in. But as I have so many other things to say, how can I think of his lordship? When two people are entirely delighted and satisfied with each other, what need is there of a third person? However since you seem to desire it, I will tell you what I know of him. Having passed the Semplon, he came to Sion, to wait for a chaise which was to come from Geneva to Brigue; and as want of employment often makes men seek society, we soon became acquainted, and as intimate, as the reserve of an Englishman, and my natural love of retirement, would permit. Yet we soon perceived, that we were adapted to each other; there is a certain union of souls which is easily discernable. At the end of eight days, we were full as familiar, as we ever were afterwards, and as two Frenchmen would have been in the same number of hours. He entertained me with an account of his travels; and knowing he was an Englishman, I immediately concluded he would have talked of nothing but pictures or buildings. But I was soon pleased to find, that his attention to the politer arts had not made him neglect the study of men and manners: yet whatever he said on those subjects of refinement was judicious, and in taste, but with modesty and diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his opinions seemed rather founded on reflection, than science, and that he judged from effects, rather than rules, which confirmed me in my idea of his excellent understanding. He spake to me of the Italian music with as much enthusiasm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a specimen of it; his valet plays extremely well on the violin, and he himself tolerably on the violencello. He picked out what he called some very affecting pieces, but whether it was by being unused to it, or that music, which is so soothing in melancholy, loses all its soft charms when our grief is extreme, I must own I was not much delighted; the melody was agreeable, but wild, and without the least expression.

Lord B—— was very anxious to know my situation. I accordingly told him, as much as was necessary for him to know. He made an offer of taking me with him into England, and proposed several advantages, which were no inducements to me in a country where Eloisa was not. He had formerly told me that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva, the summer at Lausanne and that he would come to Vevey before he returned into Italy.

Lord B—— is of a lively hasty temper, but virtuous and steady. He piques himself on being a philosopher, and upon those principles which we have frequently discussed. But I really believe his own disposition leads him naturally to that which he imagines the effect of method and study, and that the varnish of stoicism, which he glosses over all his actions, only covers the inclination of his heart.

I do not know what want of polish you have found in his manner; it is really not very engaging, and yet I cannot say there is any thing disgusting in it. Though his address is not so easy and open as his disposition, and he seems to despise the trifling punctilios of ceremony, yet his behaviour in the main is very agreeable: though he has not that reserved and cautious politeness, which confines itself alone to mere outward form, and which our young officers learn in France, yet he is less solicitous about distinguishing men and their respective situations at first sight, than he is assiduous in paying a proper degree of respect to every one in general. Shall I tell you the plain truth? Want of elegance is a failing which women never overlook, and I fear that in this instance, Eloisa has been a woman for once in her life.

Since I am now upon a system of plain dealing, give me leave to assure you, my pretty preacher, that it is to no purpose that you endeavour to invalidate my pretensions, and that sermons are but poor food for a famished lover. Think, think of all the compensations you have promised, and which indeed are my due; but though every thing you have said is exceeding just and true, one visit to the dairy-house would have been a thousand times more agreeable.

Letter XLVI. From Eloisa.

What, my friend, still the dairy-house? Surely this dairy house sits heavy on your heart. Well, cost what it will, I find you must be humoured. But is it possible you can be so attached to a place you never saw, that no other will satisfy you? Do you think that Love, who raised Armida’s palace in the midst of a desert, cannot give us a dairy-house in the town? Fanny is going to be married, and my father, who has no objection to a little parade and mirth, is resolved it shall be a public wedding. You may be sure there will be no want of noise and tumult, which may not prove unfavourable to a private conversation. You understand me. Do not you think it will be charming to find the pleasures we have denied ourselves in the effect of our benevolence?

Your zeal to apologize for Lord B—— was unnecessary, as I was never inclined to think ill of him. Indeed how should I judge of a man, with whom I spent only one afternoon? or how can you have been sufficiently acquainted with him in the space of a few days? I spoke only from conjecture; nor do I suppose that you can argue on any better foundation: his proposals to you are of that vague kind of which strangers are frequently lavish, from their being easily eluded, and because they give them an air of consequence. But your character of his Lordship is another proof of your natural vivacity, and of that ease with which you are prejudiced for or against people at first sight. Nevertheless, we will think of his proposals more at leisure. If love should favour my project, perhaps something better may offer. O, my dear friend, patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are most delicious!

To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers, you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman ought ever to belie her sex.

Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your Republic of Plato, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views: to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to be men.

What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your prepossessions in my favour.

Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified to tell me my faults. Do you think the eyes of love, piercing as they are, can discover imperfect? No, ’tis a power which belongs only to honest friendship, and in that your pupil Clara is much your superior. Yes, my dear friend, you shall praise me, admire me, and think me charming and beautiful and spotless. Thy praises please without deceiving me I know it to be the language of error and not of deceit; that you deceive yourself, but have no design to deceive me. O how delightful are the illusions of love! and surely all its flattery is truth; for the heart speaks, though the judgment is silent. The lover who praises in us that which we do not possess, represents our qualities truly as they appear to him; he speaks a falsity without being guilty of a lie; he is a flatterer without meanness, and one may esteem without believing him.

I have heard, not without some little palpitation, a proposal to invite two philosophers to-morrow to supper. One is my Lord B——, and the other a certain sage whose gravity hath sometimes been a little discomposed at the feet of a young disciple. Do you know the man? If you do, pray desire that he will to-morrow preserve the philosophic decorum a little better than usual. I shall take care to order the young damsel to cast her eyes downward, and to appear in his as little engaging as possible.

Letter XLVII. To Eloisa.

Malicious girl! Is this the circumspection you promised? Is it thus you spare my heart, and draw a veil over your charms? How often did you break your engagement! First, as to your dress; for you were in an undress, though you well know that you are never more bewitching. Secondly, that modest air and sweetness in your manner so calculated for the gradual display of all your graces. Your conversation more refined, more studied, more witty than usual, which made every one so uncommonly attentive, that they seemed impatiently to anticipate every sentence you spoke. That delightful air you sung below your usual pitch, which rendered your voice more enchantingly soft, and which made your song, though French, please even Lord B——. Your down-cast eyes, and your timid glances which pierced me to the soul. In a word, that inexpressible enchantment which seemed spread over your whole person to turn the brains of the company, even without the least apparent design. For my part, I know not how to manage; but if this is the method you take to be as little engaging as possible, I assure you, however, it is being infinitely too much so for people to retain their senses in your company.

I doubt much whether the poor English philosopher has not perceived a little of the same influence. After we had conducted your cousin home, seeing us all in high spirits, he proposed that we should retire to his lodgings and have a little music, and a bowl of punch. While his servants were assembling, he never ceased talking of you; but with so much warmth, that, I confess, I should not hear his praise from your lips with as much pleasure as you did from mine. Upon the whole, I am not fond of hearing any body speak of you, except your cousin. Every word seems to deprive me of a part of my secret, or my pleasure, and whatever they say appears so suspicious, or is so infinitely short of what I feel, that I would hear no discourse upon the subject but my own.

It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined to jealousy: no, I am better acquainted with the soul of my Eloisa; and I have certain sureties that exclude even the possibility of your inconstancy. After your protestations, I have nothing more to say concerning your other pretenders; but this Lord, Eloisa——equality of rank——your father’s prepossession——In short, you know my life is depending. For heaven’s sake, deign to give me a line or two upon this subject: one single word from Eloisa, and I shall be satisfied for ever.

I passed the night in attending to, and playing, Italian music; for there were some duets, and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet tell you what effect it had on me; but I fear, I fear, the impression of last night’s supper influenced the harmony, and that I mistook the effect of your enchantment for the power of music. Why should not the same cause which made it disagreeable at Sion, gave it a contrary effect in a contrary situation? Are not you the source of every affection of my soul, and am I proof against the power of your magic? If it had really been the music which produced the enchantment, every one present must have been affected in the same manner; but whilst I was all rapture and extasy, Mr. Orbe sat snoring in an armed chair, and when I awoke him with my exclamations, all the praise he bestowed was to ask, whether your cousin understood Italian.

All this will be better explained to-morrow; for we are to have another concert this evening. His Lordship is determined to have it compleat, and has sent to Lausanne for a second violin, who, he says, is a tolerable hand. On my part, I shall carry some French scenes and cantatas.

When I first returned to my room I sunk into my chair, quite exhausted and overcome; for want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no sooner took my pen to write to you, than I found myself gradually recover. Yet I must endeavour to sleep a few hours. Come with me; my sweet friend, and do not leave me whilst I slumber but whether thy image brings me pain or pleasure, whether it reminds me, or not, of Fanny’s wedding, it cannot deprive me of that delightful moment, when I shall awake and recollect my felicity.