». 
 
LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 ABEL ARB AND ELOISA. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/lettersofabelard00abel_1 
 
Loruiorv. iHmtecc fo7'TMiyhes,55Ziid^ate Shtd:. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 A PARTICULAR ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THEIR 
 
 I.IVXSS, AMOURS, 
 
 AND 
 
 MISFORTUNES. 
 
 WITH AN ACCOUNT OF 
 
 TKS PAXtACZiSTS, 
 
 (The Convent zchere are deposited the ashes of both.) 
 
 BY THE REV. H. MILLS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 Printed for T. HUGHES, 35, Ludgate Street. 
 
 1824. 
 
1 
 
THE 
 
 HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 ABEX-iLStB ANS EX-OISA. 
 
 PETER ABELARD was bom in the villaa:e of 
 Palais, in Britany. He lived in the twelfth century, 
 in the reigns of Lewis the Gross, and Lewis the 
 Young. His father's name was Beranger, a gentle- 
 man of a considerable and wealthy family. He took 
 care to give his children a liberal and pious educa- 
 tion : es])ecially his eldest son Peter, on whom he en- ■ 
 deavoured to bestow all possible improvements, be- 
 cause there appeared in him an extraordinary viva- 
 city of wit, joined with sweetness of temper, and all 
 imaginable presages of a great man. 
 
 When he had made some advancement in learning, 
 he grew so fond of his books, that lest affairs of the 
 world might interrupt his proficiency in them, he 
 quitted his birthright to his younger brother, and ap- 
 plied himself entirely to the studies of philosophy 
 and divinity. 
 
 He finished his studies at Paris, where learning 
 was then in a very flourishing condition. In this 
 city he found that famous professor of philosophy, 
 William des Champeaux, and soon became his fa- 
 vorite scholar ; but this did not last long. The pro- 
 fessor was so hard put to it to answer the subtle 
 objections of his new scholar, that he grew uneasy 
 A 
 
THE HISTORY OF 
 
 with hini. The school soon run into parties. The 
 senior scholars, transported with envy against Abe- 
 lard, seconded their master's resentment. All this 
 served only to increase the young man's presump- 
 tion, who now thought himself sufficiently qualified 
 to set up a school of his own. For this purpose he 
 chose an advantageous place, which was the town of 
 Melun, ten leagues from Paris, where the French * 
 court resided at that time. Champeaux did all that 
 he could to hinder the erecting of this school ; but 
 some of the great courtiers being his enemies, the 
 opposition he made to it only promoted the design of 
 his rival. 
 
 \ The reputation of this new professor made a mar 
 vellous progress, and eclipsed that of Champeaux, 
 These successes swelled Abelard so much, that he 
 removed his school to Corbeil, in order to engage his 
 enemy the closer in more frequent disputations. 
 But excessive application to study brought upon him 
 a long and dangerous sickness, which constrained 
 him to return to his native air. 
 
 After he had spent two years in his own country, 
 he made a second adventure to Paris, where he found 
 that his old antagonist Champeaux had resigned his 
 chair to another, and was retired into a convent of 
 Car ons Regular;, among whom he continued his lec- 
 tures. Abelard attacked him with such fury, that 
 he quickly forced him to renounce his tenets. Where- 
 upon the poor monk became so despicable, and his 
 antagonist in such great esteem, tliat nobody went 
 to the lectures of Champeaux ; and the very man 
 who succeeded him in his professorship listed under 
 Abelard, and became his scholar. 
 
 He was scarce fixed in his chair, before he found 
 himself exposed more than ever to the strokes of the 
 most cruel envy. Endeavours were used to do him 
 ill offices by all those who were any ways disaffected 
 to him J another professor was put into his place who 
 
\ 
 
 ABELARD AND ELOISA. 3 
 
 had thought it his duty to submit to Abelard ; in 
 rihort, so many enemies were raised against him, 
 that he was forced to retreat from Paris to Melun, 
 and there revive his logic lectures. But this held 
 not long ; for hearing that Champeaux, with all his 
 infantry, was retired into a country village, he came 
 and posted himself on Mount St. Genevieve, where he 
 erected a new school, like a kind of battery against 
 him whom Champeaux had left to teach in Paris. 
 
 Champeaux, understanding that his substitute was 
 thus besieged in his school, brought the Regular 
 Canons back again to their monastery. But this, in- 
 stead of relieving his friend, caused all his scholars 
 to desert him ; at which the poor x^hilosopher was 
 so mortified, that he followed the example of his pa- 
 tron Champeaux, and turned monk too. 
 
 The dispute now lay wholly between Abelard and 
 Champeaux, v/ho renewed it witji great waimth on 
 both sides : but the senior had not the best of it. 
 While it was depending, Abelard was obliged to 
 visit his father and mother, who according to the 
 fashion of those times, had resolved to forsake the 
 world, and retire into convents, in order to devote 
 themselves more seriously to the care of their sal- 
 vation. 
 
 Having assisted at the admission of his parents 
 into their respective monasteries, and received their 
 blessing, he returned to Paris, where, during his ab- 
 sence, his rival had been promoted to the bishopric 
 of Chalons. And now, being in a condition to quit 
 his school without any suspicion of flying from his 
 enemy, he resolved to apply himself wholly to 
 divinity. 
 
 To this end he removed to Laon, where one An- 
 selm read divinity-lectures with good reputation. 
 But Abelard was so little satisfied with the old man's 
 abilities, that he took a resolution, for the future, to 
 bear no other master than the Holy Scriptures, 
 
4 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Abelard, together with these, read the ancient 
 fathers and doctors of the church, in which he spent 
 whole days and nights, and profited so well, that, 
 instead of returning to Anselm's lectures, he took 
 up the same employment, and began to expound the 
 prophet Ezekiel to some of his fellow pupils : he 
 performed this part so agreeably, and in so easy a 
 method, that he soon got a crowd of auditors. 
 
 The jealous Anselm could not long bear this : he 
 quickly found means to get the new lecturer silenced. 
 Upon this Abelard removed to Paris once more, 
 where he proceeded with his public exposition on 
 Ezekiel, and soon acquired the same reputation for 
 his divinity he had before gained for Ms philosophy. — 
 His eloquence and learning procured him an incre- 
 dible number of schola.rs from all parts. 
 
 Not far from the place where Abelard read his 
 lectures, lived one doctor Fulbert, a canon of the 
 church of Notre Dame. This canon had a niece, 
 named Eloisa, in his house, whom he educated with 
 great care and affection. Some writers say, that she 
 was the good man's natural daughter ; but that, to 
 prevent a public scandal, he gave out that she was 
 his niece, by his sister, who upon her death-bed had 
 charged him with her education. 
 
 Whatever she was for birth, she was a very en- 
 gaging woman ; and if she was not a perfect beauty, 
 she appeared such at least in Abelard's eyes. Her 
 person was well proportioned, her features regular, 
 her eyes sparkling, her lips well formed, her com- 
 plexion animated, her hair fine, and her aspect sweet 
 and agreeable. 
 
 As soon as Abelard, who was now in the 27th or 
 2Sth year of his age, had seen her, and conversed 
 with her, the charms of her wit and beauty made 
 such an impression upon his heart, that he presently 
 conceived a most violent passion for her, and re- 
 solved to make it his whole endeavour to win her 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 5 
 
 affections. He soon met witti the luckiest oppor- 
 tunity in the world. Fulbert, who had the greatest 
 affection imaginable for his niece, finding her to have 
 a good share of natural wit, and a particular genius 
 for learning, thought himself obliged to improve the 
 talents which nature had so liberally bestowed on 
 her. He had already put her to learn several lan- 
 guages, which she quickly came to understand so 
 well, that her fame began to spread itself abroad, 
 and the wit and learning of Eloisa was every where 
 discoursed of. And though her uncle, for his own 
 share, was no great scholar, he was very solicitous 
 that bis niece should have all possible improvements. 
 He was willing, therefore, she should have masters 
 to instruct her in what she had a mind to learn ; 
 but he loved his money ; and this kept him from 
 providing for her education so well as she desired. 
 
 Abelard, who knew Eloisa's inclinations, and the 
 temper of her uncle, thought this an opportunity 
 favourable to his design. He was already well ac- 
 quainted with Fulbert, as being his brother canon in 
 the same church. He therefore told him one day, 
 in familiarity, that he was at a loss for some house to 
 board in; " andif you could find room for me," said he, 
 
 in your's, I leave it to you to name the terms." 
 
 Fulbert, immediately considering that by this 
 means he should provifle an able master for his niece, 
 who instead of taking money of him, offered to pay 
 him well for his board, embraced his proposal with 
 ail the joy imaginable, gave him a thousand ca- 
 resses, and desired he would consider him for the 
 future as one ambitious of the strictest friendship 
 with him. 
 
 Some time after the canon had taken Abelard into 
 his house, as they were discoursing one day about 
 things somewhat above Fulbert's capacity, the latter 
 turned the discourse insensibly to the good quali- 
 ties of his niece : he informed Abelard of the excel- 
 A 2 
 
6 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 lency of her wit, and how strong a propensity she 
 had to improve in learning ; and withal made it his 
 earnest request, that he would take the pains to in- 
 struct her. Abelard assured him he was ready to do 
 all he could for her improvement, and if she was not 
 like other women, who hate to learn any tiling be- 
 yond their needle, he would spare no pains to make 
 Eloisa answer the hopes which her uncle had con- 
 ceived of her. 
 
 The canon was transported with the civility of the 
 young doctor ; he committed her entirely to his care, 
 and begged of him to treat her with the authority of 
 a master ; not only to chide her, but even to correct 
 her, whenever she was guilty of any neglect or dis- 
 obedience to his commands. 
 
 Abelard naturally made use of the freedom which 
 was given him. He saw his beautiful creature eveiy 
 hour, he set her lessons every day, and was extremely 
 pleased to see what proficiency she made. Eloisa, 
 for her part, was so taken with her master, that 
 she liked nothing so well as what she learned from 
 him. 
 
 It is no difficult matter to make a girl of eighteen 
 fall in love ; and Abelard, having so much wit and 
 agreeable humour, made a much greater progress in 
 her aifections, than she did in the lessons which he 
 taught her. So that in a short time she cauld deny 
 him nothing. 
 
 Fulbert had a country house at Corbeil, to which 
 the lovers often resorted, under pretence of applying 
 themselves more closely to their studies. There they 
 conversed freely, and for five or six months gave 
 themselves up entirely to the pleasures of a mutual 
 passion. They took advantage of that privacy which 
 study and contemplation require, without subjecting 
 themselves to the censure of thosewho observed it, 
 
 Abelard being thus enchanted with the caresso^s 
 of his mistress, neglected all his serious and import- 
 
ABELARB AND ELOISA. 
 
 7 
 
 arft affairs. His performances in public were wretch- 
 ed : his scholars perceived it, and soon guessed the 
 reason. In short, our lovers who were in their own 
 opinion the happiest pair in the world, kept so little 
 guard, that their amours were every where talked of, 
 and all the world saw plainly that the sciences were not 
 always the subject of their conversation. Only Ful- 
 bert, under whose nose all this Vv'as done, was the 
 last man that beard any thing of it. At last so 
 many discoveries were daily made to him, that he 
 could not help believing something : he therefore 
 watched them so closely, that he had one day an 
 opportunity of receiving ocular satisfaction that the 
 reports he had heard were true. In short, he sur- 
 prised them together. The result was, a cruel se- 
 paration. 
 
 Abelard, finding it impossible to live without his 
 dear Eioisa, endeavoured to settle a correspondence 
 with her by her maid Agaton, who was a handsome 
 bro?\^n girl, well-shaped, and likely enough to have 
 pleased a man who was not otherwise engaged. 
 But what a surprise was it to our doctor, to find this 
 girl refuse his money, and, in recompence of the ser- 
 vices she was to do him with her mistress, demanded 
 no less a reward than his heart, and making him at 
 once a plain declaration of love ! Abelard, who could 
 love none but Eioisa, turned from her abruptly with- 
 out answering a word.^ But a rejected woman is a 
 dangerous creature. Agaton knew weli how to re- 
 venge the affront put upon her, and failed not to ac- 
 quaint Fulbert with Abelard's offers to her, without 
 saying a word how she had been disobliged. Ful- 
 bert thought it was time to look about him. He 
 thanked the maid for her care, and entered into 
 measures with her, how to keep Abelard from visiting 
 his niece. 
 
 The doctor was now more perplexed than ever ; 
 he had nov/ no way left but to apply himself to 
 
8 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 Eloisa's singing-master; and the gold which the 
 maid refused prevailed with him. By this means 
 Abelard conveyed a letter to Eloisa ; in which he 
 acquainted her, that he intended to come and see 
 her at night, and thatthe way he had contrived was 
 over the garden-wall, by the help of a ladder of cords. 
 This project succeeded, a'od brought them together. 
 After the first transports of this short interview, 
 Eloisa, who had found some more than ordinary 
 symptoms within her, acquainted her lover with it. 
 She had informed him of it before by a letter • and 
 now, having this opportunity to consult about it, they 
 agreed that she should go to a sister of his in Britany, 
 at whose house she might be privately brought to bed. 
 But before they parted, he endeavoured to comfort 
 her, and make her easy in this distress, by giving 
 her assurances of marriage. When Eloisa heard 
 this proposal, she peremptorily rejected it, and gave 
 such reasons for her refiusal, as left Abelard in the 
 greatest astonishment. 
 
 Abelard, who was willing to lose no time, lest his 
 dear Eloisa should fall into her uncle's hands, dis- 
 guised her in the habit of a nun, and sent her away 
 with the greatest dispatch, hoping that, after she 
 was brought to bed, he should have more leisure to 
 persuade her to marriage, by which they might screen 
 themselves from the reproach which must otherwise 
 come upon them, as soon as the business should be 
 publicly known. 
 
 The news that Eloisa was privately withdrawn 
 soon made a great noise in the neighbourhood ; and 
 reaching Fulbert's ears, filled him with grief and 
 melancholy. Besides that he had a very tender 
 affection for his niece, and could not live without 
 her, he had the utmost resentment of the affront 
 which Abelard had put upon him, by abusing the 
 freedom he had allowed him; and when he saw 
 Abelard, and heard from hira the reason why Eloisa 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 9 
 
 was departed, never was man in such a passion. He. 
 abandoned himself to the utmost rage, despair, and 
 thirst of revenge. All the affronts, reproaches, and 
 menaces that could be thought of were heaped upon 
 Abelard ; who was, poor man, very passive, and 
 ready to give both him and his niece all the satisfac- 
 tion which this sort of injury required. ^' Will you 
 marry her, then?" said Fulbert, interrupting him 
 Yt-s,'' replied Abelard ; " but the marriage might 
 for some time be kept secret." — No," says the 
 canon ; " the dishonour you have done my niece is 
 public, and the reparation you make her shall be so 
 too.^' But Abelard told him, that, since tliey were 
 to be one family, he hoped he would consider liis in- 
 terest as his own. At last, after a great many en- 
 treaties, Fulbert seemed content it should be as 
 Abelard desired ; that he should marry Eloisa afterr 
 she was brought to bed, and that in the meantime 
 the business should be kept secret. 
 
 Abelard, having given his scholars a vacation, re- 
 turned into Britany, to visit his designed spouse, 
 and to acquaint her with what had passed. She 
 was not at all concerned at her uncle's displeasure 4 
 but that which troubled her was the resolution which 
 she saw her lover had taken to marry her. She en- 
 deavoured to persuade him from it with all the argu- 
 ments she could think of. She begun with repre- 
 senting to him the wrong he did himself in thinking 
 of marriage : that as she never loved him but for his 
 own sake, she preferred his glory, reputation, and 
 interest before her own. 
 
 Abelard was still so enamoured with Eloisa, after 
 had given him the utmost proofs of her love, that 
 all the eloquence of the lady could not persuade him 
 that he wronged himself in thinking to marry her. 
 He knew so v/ell how to represent to her the neces- 
 sity of marriage, the discourse which he had about 
 it with F ulbert, his rage if they declined if, and how 
 
10 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 dangerous it might be to both of them, that at last 
 she consented, but with an inconceivable reluctance, 
 to do whatever he pleased. 
 
 Abelard was willing to be near his mistress till she 
 was brought to bed, which in a short time she was 
 of a boy As soon as Eloisa was fit to go abroad, 
 Abelard carried her to Paris, where they were mar- 
 ried in the most private manner that could be, having 
 no other company but Fulbert, and two or three 
 particular friends. However, the wedding quickly 
 came to be known. Fulbert, who was less concern- 
 ed to keep his word, than to cover the reproach of 
 his family, took care to spread it abroad. But Eloisa, 
 who loved Abelard a thousand times better than she 
 did herself, and always valued her dear doctor's 
 honour above her own, denied it with the most 
 solemn protestations, and did all she could to make 
 the world believe her. In short, she denied it so 
 constantly, and with such earnestness, that she was 
 generally believed. Many people thouglit, and boldly 
 affirmed, that the doctor's enemies had spread this 
 story on purpose to lessen his character. This report 
 came to Fulbert's ears, who, knowing that Eloisa 
 was the sole author of it, fell into so outrageous a 
 passion at her, that after a thousand reproaches 
 and menaces, he proceeded to use her barbarous^. 
 Abelard, who loved her never the worse for being 
 his wife, could not see this many days with patience. 
 He resolved, therefore, to order matters so as to de- 
 liver her from this state of persecution. To this 
 purpose they consulted together what course was to 
 be taken, and agreed that Eloisa should retire into 
 a convent, where she should take the habit of a nun, 
 all but the veil, so that she might easily come out 
 again, when they should have a more favourable 
 opportunity. This design was proposed, approved, 
 and executed almost at the same time. By this 
 jiwtans they affectiially put a stop to all reports about 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 1 1 
 
 their marriage. But the canon was too dangerous a 
 person to be admitted to this consultation ; he would 
 never have agreed to their proposal ; nor could he 
 hear of it without the utmost rage. It was then that 
 he conceived a new desire of revenge, which he 
 pursued till he executed it in the most cruel manner. 
 
 In the meantime the lovers spent their t\me in the 
 most agreeable manner. Abelard made her frequent 
 visits in the convent of Argenteuil, to which she was 
 retired. The nuns of this abbey enjoyed a free kind 
 of life ; the grates and parlours were sufficiently open. 
 As for Eloisa, she had such excellent qualifications 
 as made the good sisters very fond of her, and ex- 
 tremely pleased that they had such an amiable com- 
 panion. And as they were not ignorant what re- 
 ports there were abroad, that she was married to 
 the famous Abelard, (though she denied it to the 
 last) the most discerning among them, observing the 
 frequent visits of the doctor, easily imagined that 
 she had reasons for keeping herself private, and 
 connived at their meetings. 
 
 Some of them, v/hom Eloisa loved above the rest, 
 and in whom she put great confidence, were not a 
 little aiding and assisting in the private interviews 
 which she had with Abelard, and in giving him op- 
 portunities to enter the convent. 
 
 These excesses had then their charms, but in the 
 end had fatal consequences. The furious canon, 
 persisting in his design of being revenged on Abe- 
 lard, not^vithstanding his marriage with his niece, 
 found means to corrupt a domestic of the unfortunate 
 doctor, who gave admittance into his master's cham- 
 ber to some assassins hired by Fulbert who, seized 
 him in his sleep, and cruelly deprived him of his 
 manhood, but not his life. 
 
 This action of Fulbert was too tragical to pass un- 
 punished ; the traiterous servant and one of the as- 
 sassins were seized, and condemned to lose their 
 
12 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 eyes, and to suffer what they had done to Abelard. 
 But Fulbert denying he had any share in the action, 
 saved himself from the punishment, with the loss only 
 of his benefices. 
 
 Shame and sorrow had no less seized Abelard than 
 Eloisa, nor dared he ever after api^ear in the world. 
 So that he resolved, immediately upon his cure, to 
 banish himself from the sight of men, and hide him- 
 self in the darkness of a monastic life ; avoiding all 
 conversation with every kind of persons, excepting 
 his dear Eloisa, by whose company he endeavoured 
 to comfort himself ; but she at last, though in the 
 twenty-second year of her age, resolved to follow 
 his example, and continue for ever in the convent 
 of Argentueil, where she was. 
 
 Time making Abelard's misfortune familiar to him, 
 he now entertained thoughts of ambition, and of 
 supporting the reputation he had gained of the most 
 learned man of his age. He began with explaining 
 the Acts of the Apostles to the monks of the monas- 
 tery of St. Dennis, to which he had retired ; but 
 the disorders of the abbey, and the debauches of the 
 abbot, which, equally with his dignity, were superior 
 to those of the simple monks, quickly drove him 
 thence. He had made himself uneasy to them, by 
 censuring their irregularity. They were glad to part 
 with him, and he to leave them. 
 
 As soon as he had obtained leave of the abbot, ho 
 retired to Thibaud in Champagne, where he set up a 
 school ; and a great number of scholars flocked to 
 him, not only from the most distant provinces of 
 France, but also from Rome, Spain, England, and 
 Germany. But Abelard did not foresee that this 
 success and reputation would at the same time occa- 
 sion new troubles. He had made himself two con- 
 siderable enemies at Laon, Alberick of Rheims, and 
 Lotulf of Lombardy, who, as soon as they perceived 
 how prejudicial his reputation was to their schools, 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 13 
 
 sought all occasions to ruin him : and thought they 
 had a lucky handle to do so from a book of his, en- 
 tiled, Tiie IMystery of the Trinity; this they pretended 
 was heretical, and through the archbishop's means 
 they procured a council at Soissons, in the year 1121 ; 
 and, without suffering Abelard to make any defence, 
 ordered his book to be burnt by his own hands, and 
 himself to be confined to the convent of St. Medard. 
 
 A little after his condemnation, Abelard was or- 
 dered to return to St. Dennis- The liberty he had 
 taken to censure the wicked lives of the monks had 
 raised him a great many enemies. Among these was 
 St. Bernard, not upon the same motives as those 
 monks, but because Abelard's great wit, joined with 
 so loose ami sensual a life, gave him jealousy, who 
 thought it impossible the heart should be defiled 
 without the head being likewise tainted. 
 
 Scarce had he returned to St. Dennis, when one 
 day he dropped some words, intimating he did not 
 believe that the St. Dennis, their patron, was the 
 areopagite mentioned in the Scripture, there being 
 no probability that he ever w?4,s in France. This 
 was immediately carried to the abbot, who was full 
 of joy that he had now a handle to heighten the ac- 
 cusations of heresy against him with some crime 
 against the state. The abbot immediately assembled 
 all the house, and declared he would deliver up to 
 the secular power a person who had dared to reflect 
 upon the honour of the kingdom and of the crovrn. 
 Abelard, very rightly judging that such threatenings 
 were not to be despised, fled by night to Champagne, 
 to a cloister of the monks of Troyes, and there 
 patiently waited till the storm should be over. After 
 the death of this abbot, which, very lucky for him, 
 happened soon after his flight, he obtained leave 
 to live where he pleased, though it was not without 
 using some cunning. He knew the monks of so 
 rich a house had fallen into great excesses, and were 
 
14 
 
 very obnoxious to the court, who would not fail to 
 make their profit of it ; he therefore procured it 
 should be represented to the council, as very disad- 
 vantageous to his majesty *s interest, that a person 
 who was continually censuring the lives of his 
 brethren should continue any longer with them. 
 This was immediately understood, and orders given 
 to some great man ai court to demand of the abbot 
 and monks, why they kept a person in their house 
 whose conduct was disagreeable to them ; and, far 
 from being an ornament to the society, was a con- 
 tinual vexation, by publishing their faults ? This 
 being very opportunely moved to the new abbot, he 
 gave Abelard leave to retire to what cloister he 
 pleased. 
 
 Abelard now resolved to found a new society, 
 consisting chiefly of monks. To this purpose he 
 chose a solitude in the diocese of Troyes, and upon 
 some ground which was given him by the bishop he 
 built a little house and a chapel, which he dedicated 
 to the most Holy Trinity. Men of learning where 
 then scarce, and the desire of science was beginning 
 to spread itself. Our exile was enquired after and 
 found. Scholars crowded to him from all parts : 
 they built little huts, and were very liberal to their 
 master for hi. lectures ; they enlarged the chapel, 
 building that atid their professor's house with wood 
 and stone. Abelard, to continue the memory of the 
 comfort he had received in this desert, dedicated his 
 new-built chapel to the Holy Ghost, by the name of 
 the Paraclete or Comforter. 
 
 The envy of Alberick and Lotulf, which had long 
 since persecuted him, v/as strangely revived, upon see- 
 ing so many scholars flock to him from all parts, notwith- 
 standing the inconveniences of the place, and in con- 
 tempt of the masters who might so commodiously have 
 been found in the towns and cities. They now more 
 than ever sought occasions to trouble him ; the nam© 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 15 
 
 of Paraclete furnished them with one ; they gave out 
 that this novelty was a consequence of his former 
 heresy, and tl^at it was no more lawful to dedicate 
 churches to the Holy Ghost, than to God the Father : 
 that this title was a subtle art of instilling that poison 
 which he durst not spread openly ; and a consequence 
 of his heretical doctrine, which had been condemned 
 already by a council. They spread such scandal 
 against him, that they prejudiced his principal 
 friends ; and thus made his life so bitter to him that 
 he was upon the point of leaving Christendom. 
 
 The duke of Britany, informed of his misfortunes, 
 and of the barbarity of his enemies, named him to 
 the abbey of St. Guildas, in the diocese of Vannes, 
 at the desire of the monks, who had already elected 
 him for their superior. Here he thought he had 
 found a refuge from the rage of his enemies, but in 
 reality he had only changed one trouble for another. 
 The profligate lives of the monks, and the arbitra- 
 riness of a lord, who had deprived them of the 
 greater part of their revenues, so that they were 
 obliged to maintain their mistresses and children at 
 their own private expence, occasioned him a thousand 
 vexations and dangers. They several times endea- 
 voured to poison him in his ordinary diet, but prov- 
 ing wholly unsuccessful that way, they tried to do 
 it in the holy sacrament. 
 
 Whilst Abelard thus suffered in his abbey by his 
 monks, the nuns of Argentueil, of whom Eloisa was 
 prioress, grew so licentious that Sugger, abbot of St. 
 Dennis, taking advantage of their irregularities, got 
 possession of their monastery. He sent their ori- 
 ginal writings to Rome, and having obtained the 
 answer he desired, he expelled the nuns, and esta- 
 blished in their place monks of his order. 
 
 Eloisa, at her departure from the convent of 
 Argentueil, applied to her husband ; who, by the 
 permission of the bishop of Troyes, gave her the house 
 
16 
 
 and chapel of the Paraclete with its appendages^ 
 and placing there some nnns, founded a nunnery. 
 Pope Innocent 11^. confirmed this donation in the 
 year 1131. This is the origin of the abbey of the 
 Paraclete^ of which Eloisa was the first abbess. 
 
 After Abelard had settled Eloisa here, he made 
 frequent journeys from Britany to Champagne, to 
 take care of the interest of this rising house, and to 
 ease himself from the vexations of his own abbey. 
 But slander so perpetually followed this unhappy 
 man, that though his present condition was univer- 
 sally known, he was reproached with a remaining 
 voluptuous passion for his former mistress. This 
 induced him to take his last farewell of her, and re- 
 tire to his abbey in Briiany. 
 
 About ten years after, his enemies, who had re- 
 solved to persecute him to the last, were careful not 
 to let him enjoy the ease of retirement ; they brought 
 a new process of heresy against him before the arch- 
 bishop of Sens. He desired he might have the 
 liberty of defending his doctrine before a public 
 assembly, and it was granted him. Upon this ac- 
 count the council of Sens was assembled, in which 
 Louis the Vllth assisted in person, in the year 1140. 
 St. Bernard wai? the accuser, and delivered to the as- 
 sembly some propositions drawn from Abelard^s 
 book, which were read in the council. This accu- 
 sation gave Abelard such fears, and was managed 
 with so much inveterate malice by his enemies, and 
 with such great unfairness in drawing consequences 
 he never thought of ; that imagining he had friends 
 at Rome who would protect his innocence, he made 
 an appeal to the pope. The council, notwithstand- 
 ing his appeal, condemned his book, but did not 
 meddle with his person; and -gave an account of 
 the whole proceeding to pope Innocent II., pray- 
 ing him to confirm their sentence. St. Bernard had 
 bf!«*n ?.o early in prepossessing the pontiff, that h9 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 17 
 
 got the sentence confirmed before Abelard heard any 
 thing of it, or had any time to present himself before 
 the tribunal to which he had appealed. His holiness 
 ordered besides, that Abelard's boo! s should be 
 burnt, himself confined, and for ever prohibited from 
 teaching. 
 
 Some time after Abelard's condemnation the pope 
 was appeased, at the solicitation of the abbot of 
 Clugni, who received this unfortunate gentleman in 
 his monastery with great humanity, reconciled him 
 with St. Bernard, and admitted him to be a religious 
 of his society. 
 
 This was Abelard's last retirement, in which he 
 found all manner of kindness ; he read lectures to 
 the monks, and was equally humble and laborious. 
 At last, growing weak and alflicted with a complica- 
 tion of diseases, he was sent to the priory of St. 
 Marcell upon the Soane, near Chalons, a very agree- 
 able place, where he died the 21st of April, 1142, in 
 the 63d year of his age. His corpse was sent to the 
 chapel of the Paraclete, to Eloisa, (who suivived 
 her unfortunate husband 20 years), to be interred, 
 according to her former request of him, and to his 
 own desire. 
 
 The manner of Eloisa's taking the veil is thus 
 described by a writer of her time : — 
 
 " On the day appointed for the ceremony the 
 bishop of Paris officiated. He gave his benediction 
 to the veil tliat, according to the custom of the times, 
 ■was placed upon the altar, and which the novice was 
 to advance from her seat in the choir to take and put 
 on her head. Eloisa was now advancing with a 
 firm step towards the altar, to receive this emblem 
 of seclusion from the world, and of oblivion to its 
 pleasures, when a great number of persons of all 
 ranks, who were present at this mournful ceremony, 
 struck with admiration at her beauty, which was 
 increased by her extreme youth, and the general 
 B 2 
 
IB 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 opinion that was gone forth in the world of her 
 mental accomplishments and acquisitions, felt the 
 deepest commiseration for the sacrifice she was going 
 to perform. Some persons of the greatest conse- 
 quence amongst them approached her, and entreated 
 her, with tears in their eyes, to give up her intention ; 
 and made use of arguments so pressing that she ap- 
 peared for a few minutes not insensible to what they 
 said to her. She was heard to sigh bitterly, but her 
 sighs arose from a motive different from what the 
 surrounding multitude supposed. Abelard, who was 
 always present to her imagination, was the only 
 cause. She was heard to say to herself, 'Alas! un- 
 happy victim, is it then possible that the rigour of 
 fortune has violently oppressed so distinguished a 
 man ! How came I to become his wife, merely to ren- 
 der him miserable! No, no,' added the willing vic- 
 tim, ' I was unworthy of being united with him, and 
 since I am the cause of all his miseries, it is but just 
 that I should suffer the punishment for them !' Hav- 
 ing spoken thus, she tore herself away from the hands 
 of the persons that were attempting to hold her, and 
 ran up to the altar as to a funeral pile upon which 
 she was to consummate the sacrifice. She then, 
 with the greatest reverence, kissed the holy cloth 
 that covered it, took the black veil from it with her 
 own hands, covered her face with it, and pronounced 
 her vows with a courage and firm tone of voice su- 
 perior to the natural timidity of her sex.'* 
 
 Her austerity as a nun is thus described by the 
 abbot of Clugni. 
 
 " Her tears had long since destroyed her beauty. 
 A sad paleness took place of her natural vermilion ; 
 her eyes lost all their fire ; and her whole frame was 
 broken down by grief. She looked upon herself as 
 the disconsolate widow mentioned by St. Paul, 
 whose only occupation is to weep and to lament. 
 After the death of Abelard, she hardly ever went 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 19 
 
 into the monastery, except to attend the offices of the 
 church ; and except the times of her attendance in 
 the choir, when she had always her veil thrown over 
 her face to hide her tears, she remained shut up in 
 her cell at prayers, or was upon her knees before the 
 tomb of Abelard. She received with transport the 
 absolution of Abelard, sent to her by his superior, the 
 abbot of Clugni, thus worded : 
 
 *' I, Peter abbot of Clugni, who having received 
 Peter Abelard into the number of my monks, and 
 who, after having dug up his body secretly, have 
 presented it to Eloisa, abbess of the Paraclete, and 
 her sisters, declare, that, by the authority of God 
 all'powerful, and all saints, I absolve him from all 
 his sins, in virtue of the authority which ray office 
 affords me. 
 
 " Requiescat in Pace,^^ 
 
 The following curious account of the Convent of 
 the Paraclete, (of which Eloisa was the lady 
 abbess, and where the bodies of both her and Abe- 
 lard were laid) is taken from a little book intitled 
 " Bagatelles,'' written by the reverend Andrew 
 Hervey Mills : 
 
 " Previous to my water-rout to Paris, I 
 
 took the cache d'eau to Chalons on the Saone ; 
 having formerly passed the said city with the usual 
 inattention of my countrymen, and with the ill-for- 
 tune of no kind friend to give me intelligence that 
 the real tomb of Abelard was at a Benedictine con- 
 vent, dedicated to St. Marcell, up the avenue which 
 adorns the banks of the Saone, within an English 
 mile of the city ; though his body was removed to the 
 Paraclete, in pity to the sufferings of the so ill-fated 
 Eloisa. 
 
 The prior was an Englishman^ as they style him, 
 
20 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 though a native of Ireland. He was, unfortunately, 
 at Paris ; but, in his absence, the Pere — — did the 
 honours of his superior in particular, and of the con- 
 vent in general, in a very masterly manner. 
 
 The fraternity is not numerous ; but their estates, 
 as I heard, are very considerable. By these means 
 the hospitality seems amazing, on a bare view of so 
 small a convent. As I went in the morning, the 
 church was of course open : I sa\Y the tomb in ques- 
 tion immediately. Abolard is in a recumbent posture, 
 and the sculpture exceeds that of the tlien age in 
 general; I mean in France ; for Italian genius in the 
 chisel way had not^ as now, set her foot on this side 
 the Alps ; as the numerous fine monuments since 
 that time have discovered, by the general encourage- 
 ment of sovereigns. Abelard was on a visit, or per- 
 haps a kind of disputed match, being common to this 
 convent in those days ; his real home being now the 
 famous Chartreusr, among the mountains of the 
 Beaujolois. 
 
 it * * * * * 
 
 " After my artival at Paris, I, in a few days, em- 
 barked to see the Paraclete, being at the head of the 
 Seine almost, and within two miles of a town called 
 Nogent sur Seine. 
 
 *^ In the evening of the second day, having travelled 
 all night, we ariived at Nogent sur Seine. On my 
 landing it was very natural to wish a little exercise, 
 after a boat-confinement of near three days ; and, on 
 asking how far off the convent of Paraclete was 
 situate, the captain answered, * That man in the 
 purple livery is servant to the abbess — is come here 
 for letters, parcels, and other like commissions from 
 Paris, as usual on the arrival of our boat ; and he 
 will conduct you there. 
 
 " The moon shone very bright ; and it being near 
 the vintage, do confess I never .^ad a more elegant 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 21 
 
 evening walk. I soon found, as the clock struck ten 
 on our approach to the convent, that it would be im- 
 possible to reconnoitre any thinoj that night ; but my 
 walk was so far of sei*vice, besides exercise, that the 
 servant had taken care to spread the report of a gen- 
 tleman who was come from England purposely, as 
 he thought and said, on a pilgrimage to the Paraclete, 
 the next morning I found every thing prepared to re- 
 ceive a stranger according to all the laws of convents ; 
 which are often hospitals, ( hospitaliers,) as abound- 
 ing in all the acts of hospitality. 
 
 " You may imagine the environs of the Paraclete 
 gave me pleasure, though I could not be admitted 
 till next day. The little river Ardusson glittered 
 along the valley ; and as vineyards produce many 
 glow-worms, no wonder the nightingales were inha- 
 bitants, as that is their favourite food. And it may 
 be a hint to frail beauty, that the brightness of the 
 said reptile is a sure step to its destruction. 
 
 "As I knew Mr. Pope's elegant production by 
 heart, (I am aware many will say I might have spent 
 my time better ; but to this I can answer in the words 
 of Caesar's courtiers, who said of their master, that 
 his memory was so strong as to forget nothing but 
 injuries,) I amused myself by repeating slowly the 
 said poem, as I returned to Nogent, being little 
 more than a good English mile ; and it held, by this 
 economy, just to the town's end. 
 
 " Though so early at the convent next morning, I 
 found an elegant summer breakfast provided in the 
 Pere St. Romain's apartment, who was then officiating 
 at matins. I rather choose to enter the church, and 
 was surprised to find the great altar due west, con- 
 trary to all rules of church building, and only coun- 
 tenanced by oue in Lombard-street, w^hich is north 
 and south. 
 
 " On ray standing up at the grille, (which sepa- 
 rates the choir from the church,) one of the sisters 
 
22 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 (whose office is to receive alms, and bear messages 
 of business to any individual of the convent, so prac- 
 tised in all nunneries,) asked me if I vranted any 
 particular person. I told her my errand was only 
 to see the church ; on which she retired to her stall 
 and devotion. 
 
 " The Pere St. Remain having finished the service 
 and undressed himself, (I observed, while he laid by 
 his robes in the sacristy, he repeated very fast cer- 
 tain forms, alluding to the quitting all garments in 
 the grave,) took me by the hand into his apartment, 
 where I found another chaplain, yet neither so polite 
 nor learned as himself; his fame, even at Paris, 
 being concurrent with what I found during my 
 whole stay. 
 
 After the usual refreshment he said, that the 
 abbess, being in her eighty- second year, seldom rose 
 till noon, but that she begged I would stay till I 
 saw her ; for she was my countrywoman, though 
 early called to be a convert from England ; and 
 was allied to the extinct families of Lifford and 
 Stafford. 
 
 " She was aunt to the present duke de Rochefau- 
 cault, sister to the great cardinal ; and being fifth in 
 succession abbess of that convent, pleased herself to 
 hope it would become a kind patrimony ; and that 
 his majesty (it being a royal abbey) would graci- 
 ously bestow it on that name, whenever she was 
 called away, which she hourly expected, and daily 
 wished. 
 
 As a further proof of this, the arms of the Roche- 
 faucault family are over each gateway ; and on any 
 reparation, or new erection on the premises, the said 
 method is always practised. 
 
 " Before dinner St, Remain walked with me round 
 the demesne. Mr. Pope's description is ideal, and 
 to poetic minds easily conveyed ; but I saw neither 
 rocks or pines, nor was it a kind of ground which 
 
ABELARD AND ELOISA. 
 
 23 
 
 ever seemed to encourage such objects. On the con- 
 trary, it was in a vale ; and mountains like the AJp» 
 , generally produce views of this kind. 
 " I can't but say too, that the line, 
 
 " See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,'' 
 
 should be near her cell. The doors of all cells open 
 into the common cloister. In that cloister are often 
 tombs ; and she may well be supposed to have quit- 
 ted her cell (more especially in that warm part df 
 France ) for air, change of place, and refreshment. 
 
 " The superstructui'e of the Paraclete is not the 
 oame as we can imagine the twelfth century to liave 
 produced ; but the vaulted part, as the arches are all 
 pointed, may most likely be such. 
 
 Adjoining is a low building, now inhabited by a 
 miller, which had some marks of real antiquity ; and 
 St. Remain concurred with me in the sentiment. It 
 seems to have been the public hall where Abelard 
 might have given his lectures ; for in the wall on 
 each side are small apertures, so horizontal that it 
 has strong appearances of benches ; which never 
 rise theatrically in these buildings abroad. 
 
 After dinner, I had the honour of an hour's con- 
 versation with the abbess ; who declared, that during 
 thirty- two years residence there, in that character, 
 she never had seen an Englishman ; but that she 
 believed once an equipage, which she had reason to 
 take for an English one, stopped on the lawn, before 
 the great gate entering the quadrangle ; but before 
 she could signify her desire of seeing, and of course 
 entertaining, the said company, they ere departed 
 with the but too usual post-haste of my countrymen, 
 who had just pencilled the upright of a building, 
 which contented him ; though not a stone of it was 
 out of the quarry, perhaps, in the days of Abelard 
 and Eloisa. 
 
24 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 I was shewn were the bones of these so very un* 
 fortunate lovers were deposited. As it was by torch- 
 light, I could ill remark more than that Eloisa ap- 
 peared much taller than Abelard. A small plinth of 
 brick or stone preserved the bones from being tram- 
 pled on; and the abatial vault, in which they were 
 deposited, being small, seemed much crowded. 
 
 * Before I arrived at this mansion of the dead, 
 they shewed me all the vaulted part of the former 
 church and private chapel, which were now well 
 filled with wine. Magazines of this kind are often ^ 
 erected, even for sale, where convents were no*- 
 wealthy enough in lands ro public stock to support 
 themselves ; and in countries where wine is not the 
 manufactory, they have resort to boarders or pen- 
 sioners, to maintain themselves; the value of money 
 being altered, as in all countries. In this convent 
 are only seventy-two sisters. 
 
 " The pere 8t. Remain concluded his benevolence 
 by attending me part of the way to Troyes, one of 
 the capitals of Champagne ; and from whence the 
 Troyes-weight originally was named." 
 
LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 ABEI.ARD AITB Zil-OISA. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 Jt may he 'proper to acquaint the Reader^ that the foU 
 lowing letter was written by Ahelard to a friend, to 
 comfort him under some afflictions which had befallen 
 him, by a recital of his own sufferings, which had 
 been much heavier. It contains a particular account 
 of his amour with Eloisa, and the unhappy conse- 
 quences of it. This letter was tvritten several years 
 after Abelard's separation from Eloisa. 
 
 The last time we were together, Philintus, you 
 gave me a melancholy account of your misfortunes : 
 I w^as sensibly touched with the relation, and, like 
 a true friend, bore a share in your griefs. What did 
 I not say to stop your tears ? I laid before you all 
 the reasons philosophy could furnish, which I thought 
 might any ways soften the strokes of fortune ; but 
 all these endeavours have proved useless; grief, I 
 perceive, has wholly seized your spirits ; and your 
 prudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have for- 
 saken you. But my skilful friendship has found 
 out an expedient to relieve you. Attend to me a 
 moment, hear but the story of my misfortunes, and 
 
26 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 yours, Philiutus^ will be nothing, if you compare 
 them with those of the loving and unhappy Abelard. 
 Observe, I besceeh you, at what expence I endeavour 
 to serve you ; and think this no small mark of my 
 affection ; for I am going to present you with the 
 relation of such particulars as it is impossible for me 
 to recollect without piercing my heart with the most 
 sensible affliction. 
 
 You know the place where I was born ; but not, 
 perhaps, that I was born with those complexional 
 faults which strangers charge upon our nation, an 
 extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. 
 I frankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint 
 you with those good qualities which were observed 
 in me. I had a natural vivacity and aptness for all 
 the polite arts. My father was a gentleman, and a 
 man of good parts ; he loved the wars, but differed 
 in his sentiments from many who loUow that profes- 
 sion. He thought it no praise to be illiterate ; but 
 in the camp he knew how to converse at the same 
 time with the Muses and Bellona. He was the same 
 in the management of his family, and took equal 
 care to form his children to the study of polite learn- 
 ing, as to their military exercises. As I was hi$ 
 eldest, and consequently his favourite son, he took 
 more than ordinary care of my education. I had a 
 natural genius to study, and made an extraordinary 
 progress in it. Smitten with the love of books, and 
 the praises which on all sides were bestowed upon 
 me, I aspired to no reputation but what proceeded 
 from learning. To my brothers I left the glory of 
 battles, and the pomp of triumphs ; nay more, I yield- 
 ed them up my birthright and patrimony. I knew 
 necessity was the great spur to study, and was afraid 
 I should not merit the title of learned, if I distin- 
 guished myself from others by nothing, but a more 
 plentiful fortune. Of all the sciences, logic was the 
 raost to my taste. Such were the arms I chose to 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 27 
 
 profess. Furnished with the weapons of reasoning, 
 I took pleasure in going to public disputations, to 
 win trophies ; and wherever 1 heard that this art 
 flourished, I ranged, like another Alexander, from 
 province to province, to seek new adversaries, with 
 whom I might try my strength. 
 
 The ambition I had to become formidable in logic 
 led me at last to Paris, the centre of politeness, and 
 where the science I was so smitten with had usually 
 been in the greatest perfection. I put myself under 
 the direction of one Champeaux, a professor, who 
 had acquired the character of the most skilful philo- 
 sopher of his age, by negative excellencies only, by 
 being the least ignorant. He received me with great 
 demonstrations of kindness, but I was not so happy 
 as to please him long : I was too knowing in the sub- 
 jects he discoursed upon ; I often confuted his 
 notions ; often in our disputations I pushed a good 
 argument so home, that all his subtilty was not 
 able to elude its force. It was impossible he should 
 see himself surpassed by his scholar without resent- 
 ment. It is sometimes dangerous to have too much 
 merit. 
 
 Envy increased against me proportionably to my 
 reputation. My enemies endeavoured to interrupt 
 my progress, but their malice only provoked my 
 courage ; and measuring my abilities by the jealousy 
 I had raised, I thought I had no farther occasion for 
 Champeaux's lectures, but rather that I was suffi- 
 ciently qualified to read to others. I stood for a 
 place which was vacant at Melun. My master used 
 all his artifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain ; and 
 on this occasion I triumphed over his cunning, as be- 
 fore I had done over his learning. My lectures were 
 always crowded, and my beginnings so fortunate, 
 that I entirely obscured the renown of my famous 
 master. Flushed with these happy conquests, I re- 
 moved to Corbeil, to attack the masters there, and 
 
28 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 so establish my character of the ablest logician. The 
 violence of travelling threw me into a dangerous dis- 
 temperj and not being able to recover my strength, 
 my physicians, who perhaps were in a league with 
 Champeaux, advised me to remove to my native air. 
 Thus I voluntarily banished myself for some years. 
 I leave you to imagine whether my absence was not 
 regretted by the better sort. At length I recovered 
 my health, when I received news that my greatest 
 adversary had taken the habit of a monk. You may 
 think it was an act of penitence for having persecuted 
 me : quite contrary ; it was ambition : he resolved 
 to raise himself to some church dignity, therefore 
 fell into the beaten track, and took on him the garb 
 of feigned austerity; for this is the easiest and 
 shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical dignities. 
 His wishes were successful, and he obtained a bish- 
 opric : yet did he not quit Parris, and the care of the 
 schools. He went to his diocese to gather in his 
 revenues, but returned and passed the rest of his 
 time in reading lectures to those few pupils which 
 followed him. After this I often engaged with him, 
 and may reply to you as Ajax did to the Greeks : 
 
 " If you demand the fortune of that day 
 When staked on this right hand your honours lay, 
 If I did not oblige the foe to yield. 
 Yet did I never basely quit the field." 
 
 About this time my father Beranger, who to the . 
 age of sixty had lived very agreeably, letired from 
 the world, and shut himself up in a cloister, where 
 he offered up to heaven the languid remains of a lif^ 
 he could make no further use of. My mother, who 
 was yet young, took the same resolution. She turned 
 a religious, but did not entirely abandon the satis- 
 factions of life. Her friends were continually at 
 the grate ; and the monastery, when one has an in- 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 29 
 
 clination to make it so, is exceeding charming and 
 pleasant. I was present when my mother was pro- 
 fessed. At my return I resolved to study (iivinity, 
 and inquired for a director in that study. I was re- 
 commended to one Anselm, the very oracle of hia 
 time; but, to give you my own opinion, one more 
 venerable for his age and wrinkles, than for his 
 genius or learning. If you consulted him upon any 
 difficulty, the sure consequence was to be much more 
 uncertain in the point. They who only saw him 
 admired him, but those who reasoned with him were 
 extremely dissatisfied. He was a great master of 
 words, and talked much, but meant nothing. His 
 disco rse was a fire, which, instead of enlightening, 
 obscured every thing with its smoke ; a tree beau- 
 tified with variety of leaves and branches, but barren. 
 I came to him with a desire to learn, but found him 
 like the fig-tree in the gospel, or the old oak to 
 which Lucan compares Pompey. I continued not 
 long underneath his s'ladow. I took for my guides 
 the primitive fathers, and boldly launched into the 
 ocean of the Holy Scriptures. In a short time J. 
 made such a progress, that others chose me for their 
 director. The number of my scholars was incredible, 
 and the gratuities I received from them were answer- 
 able to the great reputation I had acquired. Now 
 I found myself safe in the harbour, the storms were 
 passed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself 
 without effect. Happy, had I known to make a right 
 use of this calm ! But when the mind is most easy, 
 'tis most exposed to love, and even security here is 
 the most dangerous state. 
 
 A nd now, my friend, I am going to expose to you 
 all my weaknesses. All men, I believe, are under 
 a necessity of paying tribute, at some time or other, to 
 love, and it is vain to strive to avoid it. I was a philo- 
 sopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed overall 
 Hiy wisdom ; his darts were of greater force than all 
 C 2 
 
30 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 my reasonings, and with a sweet constraint he led 
 me whither he pleased. Heaven, amidst an abun- 
 dance of blessings with which I was intoxicated, 
 threw in a heavy affliction. I became a most signal 
 a^ample of its vengeance ; and the more unhappy, 
 because, having deprived me of the means of accom- 
 plishing my satisfaction, it left me to the fury of 
 my criminal desires. I will tell you, my dear friend, 
 the particulars of my story, and leave you to judge 
 whether I deserved so severe a correction. 
 
 I had always an aversion for those light women, 
 whom it is a reproach to pursue ; I was ambitious 
 in my choice and, wished to find some obstacles, that 
 I might surmount them with the greater glory and 
 pleasure. 
 
 There was in Paris a young creature (ah, Philintus ! ) 
 formed in a prodigality of nature, to shew mankind 
 a finished composition ; dear Eloisa ! the reputed 
 niece of one Fulbert, a canon. Her wit and her 
 beauty would have fired the dullest and most insen- 
 sible heart ; and her education was equally admir-' 
 able. Eloisa was mistress of the most polite arts. — 
 You may easily imagine that this did not a little help 
 to captivate me. I saw her, I loved her ; I resolved 
 to endeavour to engage her affections. The thirst of 
 glory cooled immediately in my heart, and all my 
 passions were lost in this new one. I thought of 
 nothing but Eloisa ; every thing brought her image 
 to my mind. I was pensive, restless, and my passion 
 was so violent as to admit of no restraint. I was 
 always vain and presumptive ; I flattered myself 
 already with the most bewitching hopes. My repu- 
 tation had spread itself every where ; and could a 
 virtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all 
 
 the learned of the age ? I was young could she 
 
 show an insensibility to those vows which my heart 
 never formed for any but herself? My person was 
 advantageous enough, and by ray dress no one would 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 31 
 
 have suspected me for a doctor; and dress, you 
 know, is not a little engaging with women. Be 
 sides, I had wit enough to write a billet-doux, and 
 hoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to en- 
 tertain her, she would read with pleasure those 
 breathings of my heart. 
 
 Filled with fhese notions, I thought of nothing but 
 the means to speak to her, Lovers either find or 
 make all things easy. By the offices of common 
 friends, I gained the acquaintance of Fulbert. And, 
 can you believe it, Philintus ? he allowed me the 
 privilege of his table, and an apartment in his house. 
 1 paid him indeed a considerable sum; for persons 
 of his character do nothing without money. But 
 what would I not have given? You, my dear friend 
 know what love is ; imagine, then, what a pleasure 
 it must have been to a heart so inflamed as min<^, 
 to be always so near the dear object of desire ? i 
 w ould not have exchanged my happy condition for 
 that of the greatest monarch upon earth. I saw 
 Eloisa, I spoke to her each action, each confus- 
 ed look, told her the trouble of my soul : and she, on 
 the other side, gave me ground to hope for every thing 
 from her generosity. Fulbert desired me to instruct 
 her in philosophy : by this means I found opportuni- 
 ties of being in private with her, and yet I was sure of 
 all men the most timorous in declaring my passion. 
 
 As I was with her one day alone, " Charming 
 Eloisa," said I, blushing, " if you know yourself, you 
 will not be surprised with that passion you have in- 
 spired me with. Uncommon as it is, I can express 
 it but with the common terms — I lov.e you, adarable 
 Eloisa ! Till now I thought philosophy made us mas- 
 ters of all our passicns, and tnat it was a refuge from 
 the storms in which weak mortals are tossed and 
 shipwrecked ; but you have destroyed tnj security, 
 and broken this philosophic courage. I have des- 
 pised riches ; honour and its pageantries could 
 never raise a weak thought in me ; beauty alone 
 
32 
 
 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 has fired my soul : happy if she who raised this pas- 
 sion, kindly receives the declaration : but if it is an 
 
 offence *' — " No," replied Eloisa; " she 
 
 must be very ignorant of your merit, who can be of- 
 fended at your passion. But, for my own repose, 
 I wish either that you had not made this declaration, 
 or that I were at liberty not to suspect your sin- 
 cerity/' — " Ah ! divine Eloisa," said I, flinging my- 
 self at her feet, " I swear by yourself " I was 
 
 going on to convince her of the truth of my passion, 
 but heard a noise, and it was Fulbert. There was 
 DO avoiding it, but I must do a violence to my desire, 
 and change the discourse to some other subject. 
 After this I found frequent opportunities to free 
 Eloisa from those suspicions, which the general in- 
 sincerity of men had raised in her ; and she too 
 much desired what I said were truth, not to believe 
 it. Thus there was a most happy understanding be- 
 tween us. The same house, the same love, united 
 our persons and our desires. How many soft mo- 
 ments did we pass together ! We took all oxjportu- 
 uities to express to each other our mutual affections, 
 and were ingenious in contriving incidents which 
 might give us applausible occasion of meeting. Py- 
 ramis and Thisbe's discovery of the crack in the wall 
 was but a slight representation of our love and its 
 sagacity. In the dead of night, when Fulbert and 
 his domestics were in a sound sleep, we improved 
 the time proper to the sweet thefts of love : not con- 
 tenting ourselves, like those unfortumte lovers, with 
 giving insipid kisses to a wall, we made use of all 
 the moments of our charming interviews. In the 
 place where we met we had no lions to fear, and the 
 study of philosophy served us for a blind. But I 
 was so far from making any advances in the sciences, 
 that I lost all my taste for them, and when I was 
 obliged to go from the sight of my dear mistress, to 
 my philosophical exercises, Hwas with the utmost 
 
ABEL4RD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 regret and melancholy. Love is incapable of being 
 concealed, a word, a look, nay silence speaks it. My 
 scholars discovered it first ; they saw I had no longer 
 that Tivacity of thought to which all things wejre 
 easy ; I could now do nothing but write verses to 
 sooth my passion: I quitted Aristotle and his dry 
 maxims, to practise the precepts of the more ingenious 
 Ovid. No day passed in which I did not compose 
 amorous verses. Love was my inspiring Apollo. My 
 songs were spread abroad, and gained me frequent 
 applauses. Those who were in love, as I was, took 
 a pride in learning them ; and, by luckily applying 
 my thoughts and verses, have obtained favours, which 
 perhaps they could not otherwise have gained. This 
 gave our amours such an eclat, that the loves of 
 Eloisa and Abelard were the subject of all conver- 
 sations. 
 
 The town-talk at last reached Fulbert's ears. It 
 was with great difficulty he gave credit to what he 
 heard ; for he loved his niece, and was prejudiced 
 in my favour : but upon closer examination, he be- 
 gan to be less incredulous. He surprised us in one 
 of our most soft conversations. How fatal some- 
 times are the consequences of curiosity! The anger 
 of Fulbert seemed too moderate on this occasion, and 
 I feared in the end some more heavy revenge. It is 
 impossible to express the grief and regret which filled 
 my soul, when I was obliged to leave the canon's 
 house and my dear Eloisa. But this separation of 
 our persons the more firmly united our minds, and 
 the desperate condition we were reduced to made us 
 capable of attempting any thing. 
 
 iMy intrigues gave rne but little shame, so lov- 
 ingly did I esteem the occasion. Think what the 
 gay young divinities said, when Vulcan caught Mars 
 and the Goddess of Beauty in his net, and impute 
 it all to me. Fulbert surprised me with Eloisa ; and 
 what man that had a soul in him would not have 
 
34 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 borne any ignominy on the same conditions ? The 
 next day I provided myself with a private lodging 
 near the loved house, being resolved not to abandon 
 my prey. I continued some time without appearing 
 publicly. Ah, how long did those few moments seem 
 to me ! When we fall from a state of happiness, with 
 what impatience do we bear our misfortunes ! 
 
 It being impossible that I could live without see- 
 ing Eloisa, I endeavoured to engage her servant, 
 whose name was Agaton, in my interest. She was 
 brown, well shaped, of a person superior to the or- 
 dinary rank ; her features regular, and her eyes 
 sparkling ; fit to raise love in any man whose heart 
 was not prepossessed by another passion. I met her 
 alone, and intreated her to have pity on a distressed 
 lover. She answered, she would undertake any 
 
 thing to serve me, but there was a reward At 
 
 these words I opened my purse, and shewed the 
 the shining metal which lays asleep guards, forces a 
 way through rocks, and softens the hearts of the 
 most obdurate fair. " You are mistaken," said she, 
 smiling and shaking her head ; " you do not know 
 ]ne : could gold tempt me, a rich abbot takes his 
 nightly station, and sings under my window; he 
 offers to send me to his abbey, which he says, is 
 situate in the most pleasant country in the world. 
 A courtier offers me a considerable sum, and assures 
 me I need have no apprehensions ; for if our amours 
 have consequences, he will marry me to his gentle- 
 man, and give him a handsome employment ; to say 
 nothing of a young officer, who patroles about here 
 every night, and makes his attacks after all ima- 
 ginable forms. It must be love only which could 
 oblige him to follow me ; for I have not, like your 
 great ladies, any rings or jewels to tempt him : yet, 
 daring all his siege of love, his feaiher and his em- 
 broidered coat have not made any breach in my heart: 
 I shall not quickly be brcnjght to capitulate ; I am 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 85 
 
 too faithful to my first conqueror." And then she 
 looked earnestly on me. I answered, I did not 
 understand her discourse. She replied, For a man 
 of sense and gallantry, you have a very slow appre- 
 hension. I am in love with you, Abelard. I know 
 you adore Eloisa ; I do not blame you : I desire only 
 to enjoy the second place in your aflections : I have 
 a tender heart, as well as my mistress: you may 
 without diliiculty make returns to my passion ; do 
 not perplex yourself with unfashionable scruples : a 
 prudent man ought to love several at the same time ; 
 if one should fail, he is not then left unprovided." 
 
 You cannot imagine, Philintus, how much I was 
 surprised at these wwds : so entirely did I love 
 Eloisa, that without reflecting whether Agaton spoke 
 any thing reasonable or not, I immediately left her 
 When I had gone a little way from her, I looked 
 back, and saw her biting her nails in the rage of 
 disappointment, which made me fear some fatal con", 
 sequences. She hastened to Fulbert, and told hiiiT 
 the offer I had made her, but I suppose concealed the 
 other part of the story. The canon never forgave 
 this affront : I afterwards perceived he was more 
 deeply concerned for his niece than I at first ima- 
 gined. Let no lover hereafter follow my example : 
 a woman rejected is an outrageous creature. Agaton 
 was day and night at her window, on purpose to 
 keep me at a distance from her mistress, and so gave 
 her own gallants opportunity enough to display their 
 several abilities. 
 
 I was infinitely perplexed what course to take; 
 at last I applied myself to my Eloisa's singing-mas- 
 ter. The shining metal, which had no effect on 
 Agaton, charmed him ; he was excellently qualified 
 for conveying a billet with the greatest dexterity 
 and secresy. He delivered one of mine to Eloisa, 
 who, according to my appointment, was ready at 
 the end of a gayden, the wall of which I scaled by a 
 
36 
 
 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 ladder of ropes. 1 confess to you all my feelings, 
 Philintus. How would my enemies, Champeaux 
 and Anselm, have triumphed, had they seen the re- 
 doubted philosopher in such a wretched condition ! 
 Well — I met my soul's joy, my Eloisa: I shall not 
 describe our transports, they were not long ; for the 
 first news Eloisa acquainted me with plunged me in 
 a thousand distractions. A floating Delos was to be 
 sought for, where she might be safely delivered of a 
 burthen she began already to feel. Without losing 
 much time in debating, I made her presently quit 
 the canon^s house, and at break of day depart for 
 Britany, where she, like another goddess, gave 
 the world another Apollo, which my sister took 
 care of. 
 
 This carrying off Eloisa was sufficient revenge 
 upon Fulbert; it filled him with the deepest concern, 
 and had like to have deprived him of all the little 
 share, of wit which heaven had allowed him. His 
 sorrow and lamentation gave the censorious an oc- 
 casion of suspecting him for something more than the 
 uncle of Eloisa. 
 
 in short, I began to pity his misfortunes, and to 
 think this robbery which love had made me commit 
 was a sort of treason. I endeavoured to appease his 
 anger by a sincere confession of all that was past, 
 and by hearty engagements to marry Eloisa secretly. 
 He gave me his consent, and with many protesta- 
 tions and embraces confirmed our reconciliation. 
 But what dependence can be made on the word of 
 an ignorant devotee ! He was only plotting a cruel 
 revenge, as you will see by what follows. 
 
 I took a journey into Britany, in order to bring 
 back my dear Eloisa, whom I now considered as rny 
 wife. When I had acquainted her with what had 
 passed between the canon and me, I found she was 
 of a contrary opinion to me. She urged all that was 
 possible to divert me from marriage : that it was a 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 37 
 
 bond always fatal to a philosopher ; that the cries 
 -of children and cares of a family were utterly incon- 
 -sistent with the tranquility and application which 
 the study of philosophy required. She quoted to 
 me all that was written on the subject by Theophras- 
 tus, Cicero, and above all insisted on the unfortunate 
 Socrates, who quitted life with joy, because by that 
 means he left Xantippe. " Will it not be more 
 agreeable to me," said she, " to see myself your 
 mistress than your wife? And will not love have 
 more power than marriage to keep our hearts firmly 
 united ? Pleasures tasted sparingly, and with diffi- 
 culty, have always a higher relish, while every 
 thing, by being easy and common, grows flat and 
 insipid/' 
 
 I was unmoved by all this reasoning. Eloisa pre- 
 vailed upon my sister to engage me.. Lucilla (for 
 that was her name) taking me aside one day, said, 
 
 What do you intend, brother? Is it possible that 
 Abelard should in earnest think of marrying Eloisa ? 
 She seems, indeed, to deserve a perpetual affection ; 
 beauty, youth, and learning, all that can make a 
 person valuable, meet in her. You may adore all 
 this if you please ; but, not to flatter you, what is 
 beauty but a flower, which may be blasted by the 
 least fit of sickness ? When those features, with 
 which you have been so captivated, shall be sunk, 
 and those graces lost, you will too late repent that 
 you have entangled yourself in a chain, from which 
 death only can free you. I shall see you reduced to 
 ' the married man's only hope of survivorship. I)o 
 you think learning ought to make Eloisa more ami- 
 able ? I know she is not one of those affected females 
 who are continually oppressing you with very fine 
 ^ speeches, criticising books, and deciding upon the 
 merit of authors. When such a one is in the fury 
 of her discourse, husband, friends, servants, all fly 
 before her. Eloisa has not this fault ; yet 
 
38 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 troublesome not to be at liberty to use the least im* 
 proper expression before a wife, which you bear with 
 pleasure from a mistress. 
 
 " But you say you are sure of the affections of 
 Eloisa : I believe it : she has given you no ordinary 
 proofs. But can you be sure marriage will not be 
 the tomb of her love ? The names of husband and 
 master are always harsh, and Eloisa will not be the 
 Phoenix you now think her. Will she not be a wo- 
 man ? — Come, come, the head of a philosopher is less 
 secure than those of other men." My sister grew 
 warm in the argument, and was going on to give me 
 a hundred more reasons of this kind ; but I angrily 
 interrupted her, telling her only, that she did not 
 know Eloisa. 
 
 A few days after we departed together from Bri- 
 tany, and came to Paris, where I completed my pro- 
 ject. 'Twas my intent my marriage should be kept 
 secret, and therefore Eloisa retired among the nuns 
 of Argent euil. 
 
 I now thought Fulberf s anger disarmed ; I lived 
 in peace ; but, alas ! our marriage proved but a weak 
 defence against his revenge. Observe, Philintus, to 
 what a barbarity he pursued it ! He bribed my ser- 
 vants ; an assassin came into my chamber by night, 
 with a lazor in his hand, and found me in a deep 
 sleep. I suffered the most shameful punishment that 
 the revenge of an enemy could invent ; in short with- 
 out losing my life, I lost my manhood. I was punish- 
 ed indeed in the offending part ; the desire was 
 left me, but not the possibility of satisfying the pas- 
 sion. So cruel an action escaped not unpunished ; 
 the villain suffered the same infliction : poor com- 
 fort for so irretrievable an evil ! I confess to you, 
 shame more than any sincere penitence made me re- 
 solve to hide myself from the sight of men, yet could 
 I not separate myself from my Eloisa. Jealousy 
 look possession of my mind ; and at the very expence 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 
 
 39 
 
 of her happiness I decreed to disappoint all rivals. 
 Before I put myself in a cloister, I obliged her to 
 take the habit and retire into the nunnery of Argen- 
 teuil. I remember somebody would have opposed 
 her making such a cruel sacrifice of herself ; but she 
 answered in the words of Cornelia, after the death 
 of Pompey the Great; 
 
 O conjux, ego te scelerata peremi. 
 
 — Te fata extrema petente 
 Vita digna fui ? Moriar kc, 
 
 0 my lov'd lord ! our fatal marriage draws 
 On thee this doom, and I the guilty cause ! 
 
 Then whilst thoe go'st th' extremes of fate to prove, 
 I'll share that fate, and expiate thus my love. 
 
 Speaking these verses, she marched up to the altar, 
 and took the veil with a constancy which I could 
 not have expected in a woman who had so high a 
 taste of pleasures which she might still enjoy. I 
 blushed at my own weakness, and', without deliber- 
 ating a moment longer, I buried myserf in. a cloister, 
 resolved to vanquish a fruitless passion. I now re- 
 flected that God had chastised me thus grievously, 
 that he might save me from that destruction in which 
 
 1 had like to have been swallowed up. Ill order 
 to avoid idleness, the unhappy incendiary of those 
 criniinar flames which had ruined me in the world, 
 I endeavoured in my retirement to put those talents 
 to a good use which I had before so much abused. 
 I gave the novices rules of divinity agreeable to the 
 holy fathers and councils. In the mean wiiile the 
 enemies which my new fame had raised up, and es* 
 pecially Aiberick and Lotulf, who, after the death of 
 their masters, Champeaux and Anselm, assumed the 
 sovereignty of learning, began to attack me. They 
 loaded me with the falsest imputations, and, not- 
 
40 ABELARD TO PHlLlNTUS. 
 
 withstanding all my defence, I had the mortification 
 to see my books condemned by a council, and burnt. 
 This was a cutting soirov/ ; and believe me, Phi- * 
 lintus, the former calamity I suffered by the cruelty 
 of Fulbert was nothing in comparison to this. 
 
 The affront I had newly received, and the scan- 
 dalous debaucheries of the monks, obliged me to 
 banish myself, and retire near Nogent. I lived 
 in a desart, where I flattered myself I should avoid 
 fame, and be secure from the malice of my enemies, 
 I was again deceived. The desire of being tauglit 
 by me drew crowds of auditors even thither. Many 
 left the towns and their houses, and came and lived 
 in tents : for herbs, coarse fa.re, and hard lodging, 
 they abandoned the delicacies of a plentiful table 
 and easy life. I looked like the prophet in the 
 wilderness attended by his disciples. My lectures, 
 were perfectly clear from all that had been con- 
 demned ; and happy had it been if our solitude had 
 been inaccessible to envy! With the considerable 
 gratuities I received, I built a chapel, and dedicated 
 it to the Holy Ghost, by the name of the Paraclete. 
 The rage of my enemies now awakened again, and 
 forced me to quit this retreat. This I did without 
 much difhculty. But first the bishop of Troyes gave 
 me leave to establish there a nunnery, which I did, 
 and committed the care of it to my dear Eloisa. 
 When I had settled her here, can you believe it, Phi» 
 lintus ? I left her, without taking any leave. I did 
 not wander long without any settled habitation ; for 
 the duke of Britany, informed of my misfortunes, 
 named me to the Abbey of St. Guildas, where I 
 now am, and where I suffer every day fresh per- 
 secutions. 
 
 I live in a barbarous country, the language of 
 which I do not understand ; I have no conversation 
 but with the rudest people. My walks arc on the inac- 
 cessible shore of a sea, which is perpetually stormy. 
 
ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. 4L 
 
 My monks are only known by their dissoluteness, and 
 living without any rule or order. Could you see 
 the abbey, Philintus, you would not call it one. The 
 doors and walls are without any ornament, except 
 the heads of wild boars and hinds* feet, which are 
 nailed up against them, and the hides of frightful 
 animals. The cells are hung with the skins of deer. 
 The monks have not so much as a bell to wake them ; 
 the cocks and dogs supply that defect. In short, they 
 pass their whole days in hunting;^ — would to heaven 
 that was their greatest fault ! or that their pleasures 
 terminated there ! I endeavour in vain to recall them 
 to their duty ; they all combine against me, and I 
 only expose myself to continual vexations and dan- 
 gers. 1 imagine I see every moment a naked sword 
 hang over my head. Sometimes they surround me, 
 and load me with abuses ; sometimes they abandon 
 me, and I am left alone to my own tormenting 
 thoughts. I make it my endeavour to merit my suf- 
 ferings, and to appease an angry Godv Sometimes 
 I grieve for the loss of the house of the Paraclete, 
 and wish to see it again. Ah, Philintus ! does not 
 the love of Eloisa still burn in my heart ? I have not 
 yet triumphed over that unhappy passion. Iji the 
 midst of my retirement I sigh^^I weep, I pine, I speak 
 the dear name Eloisa, and am pleased to hear the 
 sound; I complain of the severity of heaven. But, 
 oh ! let us not deceive ourselves ; I have not made 
 a right use of gra<;e. I am thoroughly wretched. I 
 have not yet torn from my heart the deep roots 
 which vice has planted in it. For if my conversion 
 were sincere, how could I take a pleasure to relate 
 my past follies? Could I not more easily comfort 
 myself in my afflictions ; could I not turn to my ad- 
 vantage those words of God himself—" If they hare 
 persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the 
 world hate you, ye know that it hated me also f 
 Come, Philintus, let us make a strong effort, turn 
 D 3 
 
425 ABELARD TO PHILINTIJS. 
 
 our misfortunes to our advantage, make them meri» 
 torious, or at least wipe out our offences ; let us re-" 
 ceive without murmuring what comes from the hand 
 of God, and let us not oppose our will to his. Adieu. 
 I give you advice which could I myself follow I should 
 be happy. 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 43 
 
 LETTER IL 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 The foregoing Letter would probably not have produced 
 any others , if it had been delivered to the person to 
 tvhom it was directed ; but falling by accident into 
 Eloisa*s handSj who knew the character, she opened 
 it, and read it ; and, by that means, her former pas- 
 sion being awakened, she immediately set herself to 
 write to her husband, as follows : 
 
 * To her lord, her father, her husband, her brother; 
 his servant,, his child, his wife, his sister, and, to ex- 
 press all that is humble, respectful, and loving, to 
 her Abelard, Eloisa writes this, 
 
 A CONSOLATORY letter of yours to a frend 
 happened some days since to fall into my hands ; my 
 knowledge of the character, and my love of the hand, 
 soon gave me the curiosity to open it. In justifica- 
 tion of the liberty I took I flattered myseii I might 
 claiih a sovereign privilege over every thing v^^hich 
 came from you: nor was I scrupulous to break 
 through the rules of good-breeding when it was to 
 hear news of Abelard. But how dear did my curi- 
 osity cost me ! What disturbance did it occasion ! 
 
 * Domino, suo, imopatri; conjugi suo, imo fratr : Ancilla sua, 
 inio filia; ipsius uxor, imo soror; Abaelardo Heloissa, &,c, Abel. 
 Oper. 
 
44 ELOISA TO ABEL4RD. 
 
 And how was I surprised to find the whole letter 
 filled with a particular and melancholy account of 
 our misfortunes ! I met with my name an hundred 
 times : I never saw it without fear ; some heavy ca- 
 lamity always followed it : I saw yours, too, equally 
 unhappy. These mournful but dear remembrances 
 put my spirits into such a violent motion that I 
 thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend^ 
 for a few slight disgraces, by such extraordinary 
 means as the representation of our sufferings and re- 
 volutions. What reflections did I not make! I began 
 to consider the whole afresh, and perceived myself 
 pressed with the same weight of grief as when we 
 first began to be miserable. Though length of time 
 ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing 
 them described by your liand was sufficient to make 
 them all open and bleed afresh. Nothing can ever 
 blot from my memory what you have suffered in de- 
 fence of your writings. I cannot help thinking of 
 the rancorous malice of Alberic and Lotulf. A cruel 
 uncle, and an injured lover, will be always present 
 to my aching sight. I shall never forget what 
 enemies your learning, and what envy your glory, 
 raised against you. I shall never forget your repu- 
 tation, so justly acquired, torn to pieces, and blasted, 
 by the inexorable cruelty of half-learned pretenders 
 to science. Was not your treatise of divinity con- 
 demned to be burnt. Were j^ou not threatened with 
 perpetual imprisonment? In vain you urged in your 
 defence, that your enemies imposed on you opinions 
 quite different from your meaning : in vain you con- 
 demned those opinions ; all was of no effect towards 
 your justification ; Hwas resolved that you should be 
 a heretic. What did not those tw^o false prophets* 
 accuse you of, who declaimed so severely against you, 
 before the council of Sens ? What scandals were 
 
 St. Bernard and St. Nobert. 
 
ELGISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 45 
 
 vented on occasion of the name Paraclete being given to 
 your chapel ! What a storm was raised against you by ' 
 the treacherous monks, when you did them the honour 
 to be called their brother ! This history of our numer- 
 ous misfortunes, related in so true and moving a 
 manner, made my heart bleed within me. My tears, 
 which I could not restrain, have blotted half your 
 letter ; I wish they had effaced the whole, and that 
 I had returned it to you in that condition ; I should ■ 
 then have been satisfied with the little time I kept 
 it ; but it was demanded of me too soon. 
 
 I must confess I was much easier in my mind 
 before I read your letter. vSure all the misfortunes 
 of lovers are conveyed to them through their eyes. 
 Upon reading your letter I felt all mine renewed, I 
 reproached myself for having been so long without 
 venting my sorrows, when the rage of our unrelent- 
 ing enemies still burns with the same fury. Since 
 length of time, which disarms the strongest hatred, 
 seems but to aggravate theirs ; since it is decreed 
 that your virtue shall be prosecuted till it takes 
 refuge in the grave, and even beyond that, your 
 ashes, perhaps will not be suffered to rest in peace 
 let me always meditate on your calamities, let me' 
 publish them through all the world, if possible, to 
 shame an age that has not known how to value you. 
 I will spare no one, since no one would interest him- 
 self to protect you, and your enemies are never 
 weary of oppressing your innocence. Alas ! my 
 t nory is perpetually filled with bitter remembrances 
 « past evils, and are there more to be feared still I 
 ^^hall my Abelard be never mentioned without tears \ 
 Shall the dear name be never spoken but with sighs ? 
 Observe, I beseech you, to what a wretched con- 
 dition you have reduced me! Sad, afflicted, without 
 any possible comfort unless it proceed from you. Be 
 not then unkind, nor deny, I beg you, that little re- 
 lief which you only cajft- give. Let me have a faith- 
 
46 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 ful account of all that concerns you, I would know 
 every thing, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by 
 mingling my sighs with yours I may make your 
 sufferings less ; if that observation be true, that all 
 sorrows divided are made lighter. 
 
 Tell me not, by way of excuse, you will spare 
 our tears ; the tears of women shut up in a melan- 
 choly place, and devoted to penitence, are not to be 
 spared. And if you wait for an opportunity to write 
 pleasant and agreeable things to us, you will delay 
 writing too long : prosperity seldom chuses the side 
 of the virtuous, and Fortune is so blind that in a 
 crowd, in which there is perhaps but one wise and 
 brave man, it is not to be expected she should single 
 him out. Write to me then immediately, and wait not 
 for miracles ; they are too scarce, and we are too much 
 accustomed to misfortunes to expect any happy turn. 
 I shall always have this, if you please, and this will 
 be always agreeable to me, that when I receive any 
 letters from you, I shall is now you still remember 
 me. Seneca, (with those writings you made me ac- 
 quainted) as much a Stoic as he was, seemed to be 
 so very sensible of this kind of pleasure, that upon 
 opening any letters from Lucilius, he imagined he 
 felt the same delight as when they conversed to- 
 gether. 
 
 I have made it an observation since our absence, 
 that we are much fonder of the pictures of those we 
 love, when tliey are at a great distance, than when 
 they are near to us. It seems to me, as if the farther 
 they are removed the pictures grow the more in finish- 
 ed, and acquire a greater resemblance; at least 
 our imagination, which perpetually figures them to 
 us by the desire we have of seeing them again, makes 
 lis think so. By a peculiar power love can make 
 that seem life itself, which, as soon as the loved ob- 
 ject returns, is nothing but a little canvas and dead 
 colours. I have your picture in my room; I never 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 47 
 
 pass by it without stopping to look at it ; and yet 
 when you were present with me I scarce ever cast 
 iny eyes upon it. If a picture, which is but a mute 
 representation of an object, can give such pleasure, 
 what cannot letters inspire ? They have souls, they 
 can speak ; they have in them all that force which 
 expresses the transports of the heart ; they have 
 all the fire of our passions, they can raise them as 
 much as if the persons themselves were present ; 
 they have all the softness and delicacy of speech, 
 and sometimes a boldness of expression even be- 
 yond it. 
 
 We may write to each other : so innocent a plea- 
 sure is not forbiden us. Let us not lose, through 
 negligence, the only happiness which is left us ; and 
 the only one, perhaps, which the malice of our ene- 
 mies can never ravish from us. I shall read that you 
 are my husband, and you shall see me address you 
 as a wife. In spite of all your misfortunes, you may 
 be what you please in your letters. Letters were 
 first invented for comforting such solitary wretches 
 as myself. Having lost the substantial pleasures of 
 seeing and possessing you, I shall in some measure 
 compensate this loss by the satisfaction I shall find 
 in your writing. There I shall read your most secret 
 thoughts ; I shall carry them always about me, I 
 shall kiss them every moment; if you can be capable 
 of any jealousy, let it be for the fond caresses I shall 
 bestow^ on your letters, and envy only the happiness 
 of those rivals. That writing may be no trouble to 
 you, write always to me carelessly, and without study : ^ 
 I had rather read the dictates of the heart than of 
 the brain. I cannot live if you do not tell me you 
 always love me ; but that language ought to be so 
 natural to you, that I believe you cannot speak 
 otherwise to me without great violence to yourself. 
 And since, by that melancholy relation to your friend, 
 jrou have awakened all my sorrows, it is but reason- 
 
48 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 able you should allay them by some marks of an in- 
 violable love. 
 
 I do not, however, reproach you for the innocent 
 artifice you made use of to comfort a person in afflic- 
 tion, by comparing his misfortune to another much 
 greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such 
 pious artifices, and to be commended for using them. 
 But do you owe nothing more to us than to that 
 friend, be the friendship between you ever so inti- 
 mate ? We are called your sisters ; we call ourselves 
 your children ; and if it were possible to think of 
 any expressions which could signify a dearer rela- 
 tion, or a more affectionate regard and mutual obliga- 
 tion between us, we would use them : if we could 
 be so ungrateful as not to speak our just acknow- 
 ledgements to you, this church, these altars, these 
 walls, would reproach our silence and sxjeak for us. 
 But without leaving it to that, it will be always -a 
 pleasure to me to say, that you only are the founder 
 of this house; it is wholly your work. You, by in- 
 habiting here, have given fame and sanction to a 
 place known before only for robberies and murders. 
 You have in the literal sense made the den of thieves 
 a house of prayer. These cloisters owe nothing 
 to public charities ; our walls were not raised by the 
 usury of publicans, nor their foundations laid in 
 base extortion. The God whom we serve sees nothing 
 but innocent riches, and harmless votaries, whom you 
 have placed here. Whatever this young vineyard is, is 
 owing all to you ; and it is your part to employ your 
 whole care to cultivate and improve it ; this ought 
 to be one of the principal affairs of your life. Though 
 our holy renunciation, our vows, and our manner 
 of life, seem to secure us from all temptations, 
 though our walls and gates prohibit all approaches, 
 yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, is 
 covered from injuries ; while the sap of original cor- 
 ruption may imperceptibly spread within, even to 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 49 
 
 the heart, and prove fatal to the most premising 
 plantation, unless continual care be taken to culti- 
 vate and secure it. Virtue in us is grafted upon 
 nature and the v^^oman ; the one is weak, and the other 
 is always changeable. To plant the Lord's vine is a 
 work of no little labour; and after it is planted it 
 will require great application and diligence to manure 
 it. The apostle of the Gentiles, as great a labourer 
 as he was, says, he hath planted and ApoUos hath 
 watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul 
 had planted the Gospel among the Corinthians, by 
 his holy and earnest preaching ; Apollos, a zea- 
 lous disciple of that great master, continued to cul- 
 tivate it by frequent exhortations ; and the grace of 
 God, which their constant prayers implored for 
 that church, made the endeavours of both suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 This ought to be an example ibr your conduct to- 
 wards us. I know you are not slothful ; yet your 
 labours are not directed to us ; your cares are wast- 
 ed upon a set of men whose thoughts are only earth- 
 ly, and you refuse to reach out your hand to sup- 
 port those who are weak and staggering, in their 
 way to heaven, and who with ail their endeavours 
 can scptvceiy preserve themselves from falling. You 
 lling the pearls of the Gospel before swine, when you 
 speak to those who are filled with the good things of 
 this world, and nourished with the fatness of the 
 earth ; and you neglect the innocent sheep, who, 
 tender as they are, would yet follow you through 
 desarts and mountains. Why are such pains thrown 
 away upon the ungrateful, while not a thought is 
 bestowed upon your children, whose softls would 
 be filled with a sense of your goodness ! But why 
 should I entreat you in the name of your children ! 
 Is it possible I should fear obtaining any thing of 
 you, when I ask it in my own name ! And must I use 
 any other prayers than my own to prevail upon you ? 
 E 
 
53 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 The St. Austins, Tertullians, and Jeromes, have 
 wrote to the Eudoxas, Paulas, and Melanias ; and 
 can you read those names, though of saints, and not 
 remember mine ! Can it be criminal for you to imitate 
 St. Jerome, and discourse with me concerning the 
 Scripture ; or Tertullian, and preach mortification ; 
 or St. Austin, and explain to me the nature of grace? 
 Why should I only reap no advantage from your 
 learning? When you write to me, you will write to 
 your wife. Marriage has made such a correspond- 
 ence lawful ; and since you can, without giving 
 the least scandal, satisfy me, why will you not ? I 
 am not only engaged by my vows, which might pos- 
 sibly be sometimes neglected, but I have a barbarous 
 uncle, whose inhumanity is a security against any 
 criminal desire which tenderness and the remem- 
 brance of our past enjoyments might inspire. There 
 is nothing which can cause you any fear ; you need 
 not fly to conquer. You may see me, hear my sighs, 
 and be a witness of all my sorrows, without incurring 
 any danger, since you can only relieve me with tears 
 and words. If I have put myself into a cloister with 
 reason, to persuade me to continue in it with devo- 
 tion. You have been the occasion of all my mis- 
 fortunes ; you, therefore, must be the instrument of 
 all my comfort. ' 
 
 You cannot but remember (for what do not lovers re- 
 member !) with what pleasure I have past whole days 
 in hearing you discourse. How when you were ab- 
 sent I shut myself from every one to write to you ; 
 how uneasy I was till my letter had come to your 
 hands ; what artful management it required to en- 
 gage confidents: this detail, perhaps, surprises you, 
 and you are in pain for what will follow. But I am 
 no longer ashamed that my passion has had no 
 bounds for you ; for I have done more than all this ; 
 I have hated myself that I might love you ; I came 
 hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 61 
 
 that I might make you live quiet and easy. Nothing 
 l)ut virtue, joined to a love perfectly disengaged 
 from the commerce of the senses, could have produced 
 such effects. Vice never inspires any thing like thi&, 
 it is too much enslaved to the body. When we love 
 pleasures we love the living and not the dead. We 
 leave off burning with desire for those who can no 
 longer burn for us. This was my cruel uncle's no- 
 tion ; lie measured my virtue by the frailty of my 
 sex, and thought it was the man, and not the person, 
 I loved. But he has been guilty to no purpose. I 
 love you more than ever, and, to revenge myself of 
 him, I will still love you with all the tenderness of 
 my soul till the last moment of my life. If formerly 
 my affection for you was not so pure, if in those days 
 the mind and the body shared in the pleasure of 
 loving you, I often told you, even then, that I was 
 more pleased with possessing your heart than with 
 any other happiness, and the man was the thing I 
 least valued in you. 
 
 You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this, by 
 the extreme unwillingness I shewed to marry you ; 
 though I knew that the name of wife was honourable 
 in the world, and holy in religion, yet the name of 
 your mistress had greater charms, because it was 
 more free. The bonds of matrimony, however ho- 
 nourable, still bear with them a necessary engage- 
 ment. And I was very unwilling to be necessitated 
 to love always a man who, perhaps, would not always 
 love me. I despised the name of wife, that I might 
 live happy with that of mistress ; and I find by your 
 letter to your friend, you have not forgot that delicacy 
 of passion in a woman who loved you always with 
 the utmost tenderness ; and yet wislied to love you 
 more. You have very justly observed in your letter, 
 that I esteemed those public engagements insipid 
 which form alliances only to be dissolved by death, 
 and which put life and love under the same unhappy 
 
62 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 necessity ; but you have not added how often I have 
 made protestations that it was infinitely preferable 
 to me to live with Abelard as his mistress, than with 
 any other as empress of the world ; and that I was 
 more happy in obeying you, than I should have been 
 in lawfully captivating the lord of the universe. 
 Riches and pomp are not the charms of love. True 
 tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that 
 is external to him, and, setting aside his quality, for- 
 tune, and employments, consider him singly by 
 himself. 
 
 'Tis not love, but the desire of riches and honour, 
 which makes women run into the embraces of an in- 
 dolent husband. Ambition, not affection, forms such 
 marriages. I believe indeed, they may be followed 
 with some honours and advantages, b t I can never 
 think that this is the v/ay to enjoy the pleasures of 
 an affectionate union, nor to feel those secret and 
 charming emotions of hearts that have long strove 
 to be united. These martyrs of marriage pine always 
 for larger fortunes, which they think they have lost. 
 The wife sees husbands richer than her own, and 
 the husband wives better portioned than his. Their 
 interested vows occasion regret, and regret produces 
 hatred. They soon part, or always desire it. This 
 restless and tormenting passion punishes them for 
 aiming at other advantages in love, than love itself. 
 
 If there is any thing v»hich may properly be call- 
 ed happiness here below, I am persuaded, it is in 
 the union of two persons who love each other with 
 perfact liberty, who are unite(i by a secret inclination, 
 and satisfied with each other's merit. Their hearts 
 are full, and leave no vacancy for any other passion; 
 they enjoy perpetual tranquillity, because they enjoy 
 content. 
 
 If 1 could believe you as truly persuaded of my 
 merit, as I am of yours, I might say, there has been a 
 time when we were such a pair. Alas ! how was it' 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 53 
 
 possible I should not be certain of your merit ! If I 
 oould ever have doubted it, the universal esteem 
 would have made me determine in your favour. What 
 country, wrhat city, has not desired your presence ! 
 Could you ever retire, but you drew^ the eyes and 
 hearts of all after you ? Did not every one rejoice 
 in having seen you? Even women, breaking 
 through the laws of decorum which custom had im- 
 posed upon them, shewed manifestly they felt some- 
 thing more for you than esteem. I have known some 
 who have been profuse in their husbands, praises, 
 who have yet envied my happiness, and given strong 
 intimations they could have refused you nothing. 
 But what could resist you ! Your reputation, which 
 so much soothed the vanity of our sex, your air, your 
 manner ! that life in your eyes which so admirably 
 expressed the vivacity of your mind ; your conversa- 
 tion, with that ease and elegance which gave every 
 thing you said such an agreeable and insinuating 
 turn ; in short, every thing spoke for you. Very 
 different from some mere scholars, who, with all 
 their learning, have not the capacity to keep up 
 an ordinary conversation ; and with all their wit 
 cannot win the affections of women ^ who have a 
 much less share than themselves. 
 
 With what ease did you compose verses ! and yet 
 those ingenious trifles, which were but a recreation 
 after your more serious studies, are still the enter- 
 tainment and delight of persons of the best taste. 
 The smallest song, nay the least sketch of any thing 
 you made for me, had a thousand beauties capable 
 of making it last as long ?.s there are love or lovers 
 in the world. Thus those songs will be sung in 
 honour of other women, which you designed only for 
 me ; and those tender and natural expressions which 
 spoke your love, will help others to explain their 
 passion, with much more andvantage than what they 
 themselves are capable of. 
 
54 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 What rivals did your gallantries of this kind occa- 
 sion me ? How many ladies laid claim to them 1 
 ^Twas a tribute that self-love paid to their beauty. 
 How many have I seen with sighs declare their pas- 
 sion for you, v/hen, after some common visit you had 
 made them, they chanced to be complimented for the 
 Sylvia of your poems ! Others, in despair and envy, 
 have reproached me, that I have no charms but what 
 your wit bestowed on me, nor in any thing the ad- 
 vantage over them, but in being beloved by you. 
 Canyon believe me, if I tell you that, notwithstanding 
 the vanity of my sex, I thought myself pecularly 
 happy in having a lover to whom I was obliged for 
 my charms, and took a secret pleasure in being ad- 
 mired by a man who, v/hen he pleased, could raise 
 his mistress to the character of a goddess ! Pleased 
 with your glory only, I read with delight all those 
 praises you pfiered me, and without reflecting how 
 little I deserved, I believed myself such as you 
 described me, that I might be more certain I pleased 
 you. 
 
 But, oh, where is that happy time fled! I now 
 lament my lover, and of all my joys there remains 
 nothing, but the painful remembrance that they are 
 past. Now learn, all you my rivals who once viewed 
 my happiness with such jealous eyes, that he you 
 once envied me can never more be yours or mine. L 
 loved him ; my love was his crime, and the cause of 
 his punishment. My beauty once charmed him. 
 Pleased with each other, we passed our brightest- 
 days in tranquillity and happiness. If that was a 
 crime, it is a crime I am yet fond of, and I have no 
 other regret than that against my will I must neces- 
 sarily be innocent. But what do I say ? My misfor- 
 tune was to have cruel relations, -whose malice dis- 
 turbed the calm we enjoyed. Had they been capable 
 of tlie returns of reason, I had now been happy in 
 the enjoyment of my dear husband. Oh, how cruel. 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 55 
 
 •were they, when their blind fury urged a villain to 
 surprise you in your sleep ! Where was I \ where 
 was your Eloisa then ? What joy should I have had 
 in defending my lover! I would have guarded you 
 from violence, though at the expence of my life ; my 
 cries and shrieks alone would have stopped the 
 
 hand Oh, whither does the excess of passion 
 
 hurry me ! Here love is shocked, and modesty joined 
 with despair, deprived me of words. 'Tis eloquence 
 to be silent where no expression can reach the great- 
 ness of the misfortune. 
 
 But tell me whence proceeds your neglect of me 
 since my being professed ? You know nothing moved 
 me to it but your disgrace ; nor did I give any con- 
 sent but yours. Let me hear what is the occasion 
 of your coldness, or give me leave to tell you now my 
 opinion. Was it not the sole view of pleasure which 
 engaged you to me ? And has not my tenderness, by 
 leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your 
 desires ? — Wretched Eloisa ! you could please when 
 you wished to avoid it! You merited incense, when 
 you could remove to a distance the hand that offered 
 it ! Rut since your heart has been softened, and has 
 yielded, since you have devoted and sacrificed your- 
 self, you are deserted and forgotten. I am convinced 
 by sad experience, that it is natural tO' avoid those 
 to w^hom we have been too much obliged ; and that 
 uncommon generosity produces neglect rather than 
 acknowledgement. My heart surrendered too soon 
 to gain the esteem of the conqueror ; you took it with- 
 out difficulty, and gave it up as easily. But ungrate- 
 ful as you are, I will never consent to it. And though 
 in this place I ought not to retain a wish of my own, 
 yet I have ever secretly preserved the desire of being 
 beloved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow, 
 I then had aBt)ut me your last letters, in which you 
 protested you would be wholly mine, and would 
 never live but to love me, 'Tis to you, therefore; 
 
66 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 I have offered myself ; you had my heart, and I had 
 yours ; do not demand any thing back ; you must 
 bear with my passion as a thing which of right be- 
 longs to you, and from which you can no ways be 
 disengaged. 
 
 Alas, what folly is it to talk at this rate! I see 
 nothing here but marks of the Deity, and I speak 
 of nothing but man ! You have been the cruel occa- 
 sion of this, by your conduct : unfaithful man ! 
 Ought you at once to break off loving me ? Why did 
 you not deceive me for awhile, rather than immedi- 
 ately abandon me ? If you had given me at least but 
 some faint signs even of a dying passion, I myself 
 had favoured the deception. But in vain would I 
 Hatter myself that you could be constant; you have 
 left me no colour of making your excuse. I am ear- 
 nestly desirous to see you, but if that be impossible 
 I will content myself with a few lines from your hand. 
 Is it so hard for one who loves, to write ! I ask for 
 none of your letters filled with learning, and wit for 
 your reputation ; all I desire is such letters as the 
 heart dictates, and which the hand can scarce write 
 fast enough. How did I deceive myself with the 
 hopes that you would be wholly mine, when I took 
 the veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your 
 laws! For in being professed, I vowed no more than 
 to be yours only, and I obliged myself voluntarily to 
 a confinement in which you desired to place me. 
 Death only, then, can make me leave the place where 
 you have fixed me; and then, too, my ashes shall 
 rest here, and wait for yours, in order to shew my 
 obedience and devotedness to you, to the latest mo- 
 ment possible. 
 
 Why should I conceal from you the secret of my 
 call ! you know it was neither zeal nor devotion 
 which led me to the cloister. Your conscience is 
 too faithful a vv'itness to jjermit you to disown it. 
 Yet litre I am, and here I will remain ; to this placQ 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 57 
 
 an imfortunate love, and my cruel relations, have 
 condemned me. But if you do not continue your 
 concern for me, if I lose your affection, what have I 
 gained by my imprisonment ; what recompence can I 
 hope for ? The unhappy consequences of a criminal 
 conduct, and your disgraces, have put on me this 
 habit of chastity, and not the sincere desire of being 
 truly penitent. Thus I strive and labour in vain. 
 Among those who are wedded to God, I serve a man; 
 among the heroic supporters of the cross I am a poor 
 slave to a human passion ; at the head of a religious 
 community, I am devoted to Abelard only. What a 
 prodigy am I ! Enlighten me, O Lord ! — Does thy 
 grace, or my own despair, draw these words from me* 
 I am sensible I am, in the temple of Chastity, covers 
 ed only with the ashes of that fire which hath con- 
 sumed us. I am here, I confess, a sinner,'but one 
 who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps only for 
 her lover; far from abhorring her crim.es, endeavours 
 only to add to them ; and who, with a weakness un- 
 becoming the state I am in, please myself continually 
 Irvith the remembrance of past actions, when it is im- 
 possible to renew them. 
 
 Good God, what is all this ! I reproach myself for 
 my own faults, I accuse you for yours, and to what 
 purpose? Veiled as I am, behold in what a disorder 
 you have plunged me ! How difficult is it to fight al- 
 ways for duty against inclination ! I know what ob- 
 ligations this veil lays on me, but I feel more strongly 
 what power along habitual passion has over my 
 heart. I am conquered by my inclination. Myjiove 
 troubles my mind, and disorders my will. Sometimes 
 I am swayed by the sentiments of piety which arise 
 in me, and the next moment I yield up my imagina- 
 tion to all that is amorous and tender. I tell you to- 
 day what I would not have said to you yesterday. 
 I had resolved to love you no more ! I considered I 
 had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as it were 
 
5a ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 dead and buried ; yet there rises unexpected from 
 the bottom of my heart a passion which triumphs 
 over all these notions, aud darkens all my reason 
 and devotion. You reign in such inward retreats of 
 my soul, that I know not where to attack you. When 
 I endeavour to break those chains by which I am 
 bound to you I only deceive myself, and all the ef- 
 forts I am able to make serve but to bind them the 
 faster. Oh, for pity's sake, help a wretch to re- 
 nounce her desires, herself, and, if it be possible^ 
 even, to renounce you ! If you are a lover, a father, 
 help a mistress, comfort a child! These tender names, 
 connot they move you ? Yield either to pity or love ! 
 If you gratify my request, I shall continue a reli- 
 gious, without longer profaning my calling. I am 
 ready to humble myself with you to the wonderful 
 providence of God, who does all things for our 
 sanctification, who by his grace purifies all that^ is 
 vicious and corrupt in the principle, and by the in- 
 conceivable riches of his mercy draws us to himself 
 against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes 
 to discern the greatness of his bounty, which at first 
 we would not understand. 
 
 I thought to end my letter here. But now I am 
 complaining against you, I must unload my heart 
 and tell you all its jealousies and reproaches. In- 
 deed I thought it something hard, that when we bad 
 both engaged to consecrate ourselves to heaven, you 
 should insist on my doing it first. Does Abelard 
 then, said I, suspect he shall see renewed in me the 
 example of Lot's wife, who could not forbear look- 
 ing back wlxen^ she left Sodom ! If my youth and 
 sex might give occasion of fear that I should return 
 to the world, could not my behaviour, my fidelity, and 
 this heart, which you ought to*know, could not these 
 banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This dis- 
 trustful foresif-ht touched me sensibly. I said to 
 myself; there was a time when he could rely upoa 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 59 
 
 my bare word, and does he now want vows to secure 
 liini^elf of me ! What occasion have I given him, in 
 the whole course of my life, to admit the least sus- 
 picion! I could meet him at all his assignations, and 
 would I decline following him to the seats of holi- 
 ness ! I who have not refused to be a victim of plea- 
 sure to gratify him, can he think I would refuse 
 to be a sacrifiee of honour to obey him ! lias 
 vice such charms to well-born souls ! and when we 
 have once drank of the cup of sinners, is it with 
 such difficulty that we take the chalice of Saints ! or 
 did you believe yourself a greater master to teach 
 vice and virtue ; or did you think it was more easy 
 to persuade me to the first than [the latter ! No ; this 
 suspicion would be injurious to both. Virtue is too 
 amiable not to be embraced, when you reveal her 
 charms ; and Vice too hideous not to be avoided, 
 v/hen you shew her deformities. Nay, when you 
 please, any thing seems lovely to me, and nothing 
 is frightful or difficult when you are by. I am only 
 weak when I am alone and unsupported by you, and 
 therefore it depends on you alone that I may be such 
 as you desire. I wish to heaven you had not such 
 power over me ! If you had any occasion to fear, you 
 would be less negligent. But what is there for you 
 to fear ? 1 have done too much, and now have no- 
 thing more to do but to triumph over your ingrati- 
 tude. When we lived happy together, you might 
 have made it a doubt whether pleasure or affection 
 united me more to you ; but the place from whence 
 I write to you must now have entirely taken away 
 that doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I 
 did in the world. If I had loved pleasures, could I 
 not yet have found means to have gratified myself ? 
 I was not above twenty-two years old, and there 
 were other men left, though I was deprived of Abe- 
 lard ; and yet, did I not bury myself alive in a nun- 
 nery, and triumph over love, at an age capable of 
 
60 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 enjoying it in its full latitude? 'Tis to you I sacri- 
 fice these remains of a transitory beauty, these 
 widowed nights and tedious days, which I pass 
 without seeing you ; and since you cannot possess 
 them, I take them from you to offer them to heaven, 
 and to make, alas ! but a secondary obligation of my 
 heart, my days, and my life 1 
 
 I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this head ; 
 I ought to speak less to you of your misfortunes, 
 and of my own sufferings, for love of you. We 
 tarnish the lustre of our most beautiful actions, wlien 
 we applaud them ourselves. This is true, and yet 
 there is a time when we may with decency com- 
 mend ourselves : when we have to do with those 
 whom base ingratitude has stupified, we cannot too 
 much praise our own good actions. Now if you^ 
 were of this sort of men, this would be a home reflec- 
 tion on you. Irresolute as I am, I still love you, and 
 yet I must hope for nothing. I have renounced 
 life, and stripped myself of every thing, but I fmd 
 I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard ; though 
 I have lost my lover I still preserve my love. O, 
 vows ; O, convent ! I have not lost my humanity 
 ixnderyour inexorable discipline [ You have not made 
 me marble by changing my habit ; my heart is 
 not hardened by my imprisonment ; I am still sen- 
 sible to what ha.s touched me, though, alas! I ought 
 not to be so. Without offending your com-mands, 
 permit a lover to exhort me to live in obedience to 
 your rigorous rules. Your yoke will be lighter, 
 if that hand support me under it; your exercises 
 will be amiable, if he shews m.e their advantage. 
 Retirement, solitude ! you will not appear terrible, if 
 ■ I may but still know I have any place in his memory. 
 A heart which has been so sensibly affected as mine, 
 cannot soon be indifferent. We fluctuate long be- 
 tween love and hatred before we can arrive at a 
 happy tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 61 
 
 with some distant hope that we shall not be quite 
 forgotten. 
 
 Yes, Abelard, I conjnre you by the chains I bear 
 here, to ease the weight of them, and make them as 
 agreeable as I wish they were to me. Teach me the 
 maxims of divine lore. Since you have forsaken 
 me, I glory in being wedded to heaven. My heart 
 adores that title, and disdains any other ; tell me 
 how this divine love is nourished, how it operates 
 and purifies itself. When we were tossed in the 
 ocean of the world, we could hear of nothing but 
 your verses, which published every where our jo^^s 
 and our pleasures. Now we are in the haven of 
 grace, is it not fit you should discourse to me of this 
 happiness, and teach me every thing which might 
 improve and heighten it ? Shew me the same com- 
 plaisance in my present condition as you did when 
 we were in the world. Without changing the ardour 
 of our affections let us change their object ; let us 
 leave our songs, and sing hymns ; let us lift up our 
 hearts to God, and have no transports but for his 
 gloiy. 
 
 I expect this from you as a thing you cannot re- 
 fuse me. God has a peculiar right over the hearts 
 of great men, which he has created. When he 
 pleases to touch them he ravishes them, and lets 
 them not speak or breathe but lor his glory : 'till 
 
 that moment of grace arrives, O, think of me ! — • 
 
 do not forget me ! remember my love, my fidelity, 
 
 my constancy ! Love me as your mistress, cherish me 
 as your child, your sister, your wife ! Consider that 
 1 still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you! — 
 What a word, what a design is this ! I shake with 
 horror, and my heart revolts against what I say! I shall 
 blot all my paper with tears — I end my long letter, 
 wishing you, if you can desire it, (would to heaven I 
 Could ! ) for eyer adieu ! 
 
 F 
 
G2 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 LETTER ^1. 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 That the reader may make a right judgment on the 
 following letter^ it is proper he should be informed of 
 the condition Ahelard was in when he wrote it. The 
 duke of Britany, whose subject he was born, jealous of 
 the glory of France, which then engrossed all the most 
 famous scholars of Europe, and being besides acquaint- 
 ed with the persecution Abelard had suffered from 
 his enemies, had nominated him to the abbey of St. 
 Guildas, and, by this benefaction and mark of his es- 
 teem, engaged him to pass the rest of his days in his 
 dominions. lie received this favour ivith great joy, 
 imagining, thai by leaving France, he should lose his 
 passion, and gain a new turn of mind upon entering 
 into his new dignity. The abbey ^ St. Guildas is 
 seated upon a rock, which the sea beats with its waves. 
 Abelard, who had laid on himself the necessity of 
 vanquishing a passion which absence had in a great 
 measure weakened, endeavoured in this solitude to ex- 
 tinguish the remains of it by his tears. But upon his 
 receiving the foregoing letter he could not resist so 
 powerful an attack, but proves as weak and as much to 
 be pitied as Eloisa. It is not then a master or director 
 that speaks to her, but a man who had loved her, and 
 loves her still ; and under this character we are to con- 
 sider Abelard when he wrote the following letter. If 
 he seems by some passages in it to have begun to feel 
 the motions of Divine Grace, they appear as yet to be 
 only by starts, and without any uniformity. 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 63 
 
 <X)ULD I have imagined that a letter not written 
 to yourself could have fallen into your hands, I had 
 been more cautious not to have inserted any thing in 
 it which might awaken the memory of our past mis- 
 fortunes. 1 described with boldness the series of 
 my disgrace to a friend, in order to make him less 
 sensi])le of the loss he had sustained. If by this 
 Vvell-meaning artifice 1 have disturbed you, 1 pur- 
 pose here to dry up those tears w^hich the sad de- 
 scription occasioned you to shed : I intend to mix my 
 grief with yours, and pour out my heart before you; 
 in short, to lay open before your eyes all my trouble, 
 and the secret of my soul, which my vanity has 
 hitherto made me conceal from the rest of the world, 
 and which you now force from me, in spite of my 
 resolutions to the contrary. 
 
 It is true, that in a sense of the afliictions which 
 had befallen us, and observing that no change of our 
 condition w^as to be expected; that those prosperous 
 days which had seduced us were now past, and there 
 remained nothing but to erase out of our minds, by 
 painful endeavours, all marks and remembrance of 
 them, I had w ished to Qnd in philosophy and religion 
 a remedy for my disgrace, I searched out an asylum 
 to secure me from love. I was come to the sad ex- 
 periment of making vows to harden my heart. But 
 what have I gained by this ? If my passion has been 
 put under a restraint, my ideas yet remain. I pro- 
 mise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot 
 think of it without loving you ; and am pleased with 
 that thought. My love is not at ail weakened by those 
 reflections I made in order to free myself. The si- 
 lence I am surrounded with makes me more sensible 
 to its impressions ; and while I am unemployed with 
 any other things, this makes itself the business of 
 my whole vacation; till, after a multitude of useless 
 endeavours, I begin to persuade myself that 'tis a 
 superfluous trouble to strive to free myself, and th^l 
 
64 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 it is wisdom sufficient if I can conceal from every one 
 but ycu my confusion and weakness. 
 
 I remove to a distance from your person, with an 
 intention of avoiding you as an enemy, and yet I 
 incessantly seek for you in my mind: I recal your 
 image iti my memory ; and in such different disquie- 
 tudes I betray and contradict myself. I hate you ; I 
 love you : Shame presses me on all sides ; I am at this 
 moment afraid lest I should seem more indifferent 
 than you, and yet I am ashamed to discover my 
 trouble. How weak are we in ourselves, if we do 
 not support ourselves on the cross of Christ ! Shall 
 we have so little courage, and shall that uncertainty 
 your heart labours with, of serving two masters, af- 
 fect mine too! You see the confusion I am in, what 
 I blame myself for, and what I suffer. Religion com- 
 mands me to pursue virtue, since I have nothing to 
 hope for from love. But love still preserves its 
 dominion in my fancy, and entertains itself with past 
 pleasures. Memory supplies the place of a mistress. 
 Piety and duty are not always the fruits of retire- 
 ment ; even in desarts, where tlie dew of heaven 
 falls not on us, we love wha!*Ave ought no longer to 
 love. The passions, stirred up by solitude, fill those 
 regions of death and silence ; and it is very seldom 
 that what ought to be is truly followed there, and 
 that God only is loved and served. Had I always 
 had such notions as these, I had instructed you 
 better. You call me your master: 'tis tme you Avere 
 entrusted to my care. I saw you, I was earnest to 
 teach you vain sciences ; it cost you your innocence, 
 and me my liberty. Your uncle, v*'ho was fond of 
 you, became therefore my enemy, and revenged 
 himself on me. If now, hiving lost the power of 
 satisfying my passion, I had lost too that of loving 
 you, I should have some consolation. My enemies 
 v/ould have given me that tranquillity which Origou 
 purchased by a crime. |iow miserable am I ! . My 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 (j5 
 
 misfortune does not loose my chains, my passion 
 ^rows furious by impotence, and that desire I still 
 have for you, amidst all my disgraces, makes me- 
 more unliappy than the misfortune itself. I find 
 myself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, 
 even amidst my tears, than in possessing yourself 
 when I Wcis in full liberty. I continually think of 
 you, I continually call to mind that day when you 
 bestowed on me the first marks of your tenderness. 
 In this condition, O Lord ! if I run to prostrate my- 
 self before thy altars, if I beseech thee to pity me, 
 why does not the pure flame of thy spirit consume 
 the sacrifice that is offered to thee ? Cannot this habit 
 of penitence which I wear, interest heaven to treat 
 me more favourably ! But that is still inexorable, 
 because my passion still lives in me : the fire is only 
 covered over with deceitful ashes, and cannot be ex- 
 tinguished but by extraordinar grace. We deceive 
 men, but nothing is hid from God. 
 
 You tell me, that 'tis for me you live under that 
 veil which covers you. Why do you prophane your 
 vocation with such words? Why provoke a jealous 
 God by a blasphemy ? I hoped, after our separation, 
 you would have changed your sentiments ; I hoped 
 too, that God v/ould have delivered me from the 
 tumult of my senses and that contrariety which 
 reigns in my heart. We commonly die to the affec- 
 tions of those whom we see no more, and they to 
 ours. Absence is the tomb of love. But to me 
 absence is an unquiet remembrance of what I once 
 loved, which continually torments me. I flattered 
 myself, that when I should see you no more, you 
 would only rest in my memory, without giving any 
 trouble to my mind ; that lUitany and the sea would 
 inspire other thoughts ; that my fasts and studies 
 would by degrees erase you out of my heart: but 
 in spite of severe fasts and redoubled studies, in 
 «pite of the distance of three hundred miles which 
 t 2 
 
66 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 separates us, your image, such as you describe your-, 
 self in your veil, appears to me, and confounds alt 
 my resolutions. 
 
 What means have I not used ! I have armed my 
 own hands against myself; I have exhausted my 
 strength in constant exercises ; I comment upon St. 
 Paul; I dispute with Aristotle : in short, I do all 
 I used to do before I loved you, but all in vain ; no- 
 thing can be successful that opposes you. Oh! do 
 not add to my miseries by your constancy ; forget, if 
 you can, your favours, and that right which they 
 claim over me ; permit me to be indifferent. I envy 
 their happiness who have never loved ; how quiet 
 and easy are they ! But the tide of pleasures has 
 always a reflux of bitterness: I am but too much 
 convinced now of this ; but though I am no longer 
 deceived by love, I am not cured ; while my reason 
 condemns it, my heart declares for it. I am deplorable, 
 that I have not the ability to free myself from a 
 passion which so many circumstances, this place, 
 my person, and my disgraces, tend to destroy. I 
 yield, without considering that a resistance would 
 wipe out my past offences, and would procure me, 
 in their stead, merit and repose. Why should you 
 use eloquence to reproach me for my flight and for 
 my silence ? Spare the recital of our assignations, 
 and your constant exactness to them ; without calling 
 up such disturbing thoughts, I have enough to suffer,— 
 What great advantages would philosophy give u s over 
 other men, if by studying it we could learn to 
 govern our passions ! But how humbled ought we 
 to be when we cannot master them ! What efforts, 
 what relapses, what agitations do we undergo ! And 
 how long are we tost in this confusion, unable to 
 exert our reason, to possess our souls, or to rule our 
 affections ! 
 
 What a troublesome employment is love ! and bow 
 valuable is virtue, even upon consideration of ouf 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 own ease ! Recollect your extravagances of passion, 
 guess at my distractions ; number up our cares, if 
 possible, our griefs, and our inquietudes; tlirow 
 these things out of the account, and let love have all 
 its remaining softness and pleasure. Hov/ little 
 is that I And yet for such shadows of enjoyments 
 which at first appeared to us, are we so weak our 
 whole lives, that we cannot now help writing to each 
 other, covered as we are with saclvcloth and ashes. 
 How much happier should we be, if by our humilia- 
 tion and te^rs we could make our rejientance sure ! 
 The love of pleasure is not eradicated out of the soul, 
 but by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful a 
 party in our breasts, that we find it difficult to con- 
 demn it ourselves. What abhorrence can I be said 
 to have of my sins, if the objects of them are always 
 amiable to me ! How can I separate from the person 
 I love, the passion I must detect? Will the tears I 
 shed be sufficient to render it odious to me ! I know 
 not how it happens, there is alv/ays a pleasure in 
 weeping for a beloved object. 'Tis difficult in our 
 sorrow to distinguish penitence from love. The me- 
 mory of the crime, and the memory of the object 
 which has charmed us, are too nearly related to be 
 immediately separated ; and the love of God, in its 
 beginning, does not wholly annihilate the love of 
 the creature. 
 
 But what excuses could I not find in you, if the crime 
 were excusable ! Unprofitable honour, troublesome 
 riches, could never tempt me ; but those charms, that 
 beauty, that air, which I yet behold at this instant, 
 have occasioned my fall. Your looks were the be- 
 ginning of my guilt; your eyes, your discourse, 
 pierced my heart ; and in spite of that ambition and 
 glory which filled it, and offered to make a defence, 
 love soon made itself master. God, in order to, 
 punish me, forsook me. His providence permitted 
 those consequences which have since happened* You 
 
68 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 are no longer of the world ; you have renounced it ; 
 I am a religious, devoted to solitude ; shall we make 
 no advantage of our condition ? Would you destroy 
 my piety in its infant state ? Would you have me 
 forsake the convent into which I am but newly en- 
 tered ? Must I renounce my vows ? I have made them 
 in the presence of God : whither shall I fly from his 
 wrath, if I violate them ? Suffer me to seek for ease 
 in my duty : how difficult is it to procure that! I 
 pass whole days and nights alone in this cloister, 
 without closing my eyes. My love burns fiercer 
 amidst the happy indifference of those who surround 
 me, and my heart is at once pierced with your sor- 
 rov/s and its own. Oh what a loss have I sustained, 
 when I consider your constancy! What pleasures 
 have I missed enjoying! I ought not to confess this 
 weakness to you ; I am sensible I commit a fault ; 
 if I could have shewed more firmness of mind, 1 
 should perhaps have provoked your resentment against 
 me, and your anger might work that effect in you 
 which your virtue could not. If in the world 1 pub- 
 lished my weakness by verses and love-songs, ought 
 not the dark cells of this house to conceal that 
 weakness, at least under an appearance of piety ? 
 Alas ' I am still the same ! Or if I avoid the evil, I 
 cannot do the good ; and yet I ought to do both, in 
 order to make this manner of living profitable. But 
 how difficult is this in the trouble which surrounds 
 me ! Duty, reason and decency, which upon other 
 occasions have some power over me, are here entirely 
 useless. The Gospel is a language I do not under- 
 stand when it opposes my passion. The oaths which 
 I have taken before the holy altar are feeble helps 
 when opposed to you. Amidst so many voices which 
 call me to my duty, I hear and obey nothing but the 
 secret dictates of a desperate passion. Void of all 
 relish for virtue, any concern for my condition, or 
 any application to my studies, I am coniinuaiiy pre- 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 69 
 
 sent ; by my imagination, wherel ought not to be, and 
 I find I have no power, when i would at any time 
 correct it. I feel e, perpetual strife betvv^een my in- 
 clination and my duty. I find myself entirely a dis- 
 tracted lover ; unquiet in the midst of silence, and 
 restless in this abode .of peace and repose. How 
 shameful is my condition ! 
 
 Consider me no more I entreat you, as a founder, 
 or any great personage ; your encomiums do but ill 
 agree w^ith such multiplied weaknesses. I am a 
 miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and 
 with my face pressed to the earth, I mix my tears 
 and sighs in the dust, when the beams of grace and 
 reason enlighten me. Come, see me in this postui'e, 
 and solicit me to love you ! Come, if you think fit, 
 and in your holy habit thrust yourself between God 
 and me, and be a wall of separation. Come,* and 
 force from m.e those sighs, thoughts, and vows, which 
 I owe to him only. Assist the evil spirits, and be 
 the instrument of their malice. What cannot you 
 induce a heart to, whose weakness you so perfectly 
 jtnow ! But rather withdraw yourself, and contribute 
 to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, 
 I entreat you, by our former tenderest affection, and 
 by our common misfortunes. It will always be the 
 highest love to shew none : I here release you of 
 all your oaths and engagements. Be God's wholly, 
 to whom 3'ou are appropriated ; I will never oppose 
 so pious a design. How happy shall I be if I thus 
 lose you ! then shall I be indeed a religious and you 
 a perfect example of an abbess. 
 
 Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice ; 
 make your virtue a spectacle worthy men and 
 angels : be humble among your children, as- 
 siduous in your choir, exact in your discipline, 
 diligent in your readirig ; make even your recrea- 
 tions useful. Have you purchased your vocation at 
 io slight a rate, as that you should not turn it to the 
 
70 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 best advantage ? Since you have permitted yourself 
 to be abused by false doctrine, and criminal instruc- 
 tions, resist not those good counsels v^^hich grace and 
 religion inspire me with. I must confess to you, 
 I have thought myself hitherto an abler master to 
 instil vice than to excite virtue. My false eloquence 
 has only set off false good. My heart, drunk with 
 voluptuousness, could only suggest terms proper 
 and moving to recommend that. The cup of sinners 
 overflows with so enchanting a sweetness, and we 
 are naturally so much inclined to taste it, that it 
 needs only be offered to us. On the other hand, 
 the chalice of saints is filled with a bitter draught, 
 and nature starts from it. And yet you reproach 
 me with cowardice for giving it you first ; I willingly 
 submit to these accusations. I cannot enough admire 
 the readiness you shewed to take the religious 
 habit : bear, therefore, with courage the cross which 
 3^ou have taken up so resolutely. Drink of the 
 chalice of saints, even to the bottom, without turning 
 your eyes with uncertainty upon me. Let me remove 
 far from you, and obey the apostle who hath said, 
 *Fly.' 
 
 You intreat me to return, under a pretence 
 of devotion. Your earnestness in this point creates 
 a suspicion in me, and makes me doubtful how to 
 answer you. Should I commit an error here, my 
 words would blush, if I may say so, after the history 
 of my misfortunes. The church is jealous of its glo- 
 and commands that her children should be induced 
 to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When 
 we have approached God after an unblamable manner, 
 we may then with boldness invite others to him. 
 But to forget Eloisa, to see her no more, is what 
 heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing 
 from Abelard, to lose him, even in idea, is what 
 heaven enjoins Eloisa. To forget in the case of love, 
 is the most necessary penitence, and the most dif- 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 71 
 
 ficult. It is easy to recount our faults ; how many, 
 through indiscretion, have made themselves a second 
 pleasure of this, instead of confessing them with 
 humility. The only way to return to God is, by ' 
 neglecting the creature which we have adored, and 
 adoring God, w^hom we have neglected. This may 
 appear harsh, but it must be done if we would be 
 saved; 
 
 To make it more easy, observe why I pressed you 
 to your vow before I took mine ; and pardon my 
 sincerity, and the design I have of meriting 3^our 
 neglect and hatred, if 1 conceal nothing from you of 
 the particulars you inquire after. When I saw my- 
 self so oppressed with my misfortune, my impotency 
 made me jealous, and I considered all men as my 
 rivals. Love has more of distrust than assurance. 
 I was apprehensive of abundance of things, because 
 I saw I had abundance of defects^; and being tor- 
 mented with fear from my own example, I imagined 
 3^our heart, which had been so much accustomed to 
 love, would not be long without entering into a new 
 engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the most 
 dreadful consequences, I w^as desirous to put my- 
 self out of a possibility of doubting you. I was 
 very urgent to persuade you that decency requir- 
 ed you should withdraw from the envious eyes of 
 the world; that modesty, and our fiiendship, de- 
 manded it ; nay, that your own safety obliged you 
 to it f and that after such a revenge taken upon me, 
 you could expect to be secure no where but in a 
 convent. 
 
 I will do you justice — you were very easily per- 
 suaded to it. My jealousy secretly triumphed over 
 your innocent compliance ; and yet, triumphant as 
 I was, I yielded you up to God with an unwilling 
 heart. I still kept my gift as much as was possible, 
 and only parted with it that I might effectually put 
 it out of the power of men, I did not persuade you to ]. 
 
72 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 religion out of any regard to your happiness, but 
 condemned you to it, likei an enemy wiio destroys 
 what he cannot carry off. And yet you heard niy 
 discourse s with kindness ; you sometimes interrupted 
 me with tears, and pressed me to acquaint you which 
 of the convents was most in my esteem. What a 
 comfort did I feel in seeing you shut up ! I was now 
 at ease, and took a satisfaction in considering that 
 you did not continue long in the world after my 
 disgrace, and that you would return into it no 
 more. 
 
 But still this w^as doubtful ; I imagined women 
 were incapable of maintaining any constant reso- 
 lutions, unless they were forced by the necessity of 
 fixed Vows, (wanted those vows, and heaven itself for 
 your security, that I might no longer distrust you. — 
 Ye holy mansions^ ye impenetrable retreats, from 
 -what numberless apprehensions have you freed me! 
 Keligion and piety keep a strict guard round your 
 grates and high walls. What a haven of rest is this 
 to a jealous mind ! And with what impatience did I 
 endeavour it! I went every day trembling to exhort 
 you to this sacrifice ; I admired, without daring to 
 imention it then, a brightness in your beauty which I 
 -had never observed before. Whether it was the bloom 
 .of a rising virtue, or an anticipation of that great 
 loss I was going to suffer, I was not curious in exa- 
 mining the cause, but only hastened your being pro- 
 fessed. I engaged your prioress in my guilt by a 
 criminal bribe, with which I purchased the right of 
 burying you. The professed of the house were alike 
 bribed, and concealed from you, by my directions, all 
 their scruples and disgusts. I omitted nothing, either 
 little or great. 4ndif you had escaped all my snares, 
 I myself would not have retired : I was resolved to 
 , follow you every v/here. This shadow of myself 
 .would always have pursued your steps, and conti- 
 ^tiually occasioned either your confusion or feay, 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 73 
 
 which would have been a sensible gratification 
 to me. 
 
 But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to make a 
 vow ; I accompanied you with terror to the foot of 
 the altar; and while you stretched out your hand to 
 touch the sacred cloth, I heard you pronounce dis- 
 tinctly those fatal words which for ever separated 
 you from all men. Till then your beauty and youth 
 seemed to oppose my design, and to threaten your 
 return into the world. Might not a small temptation 
 have changed you ! Is it possible to renounce one's 
 self entirely at the age of two and twenty ! At an 
 age which claims the most absolute liberty, could 
 you think the world no longer worthy of your regard ! 
 How much did I wrong you, and what weakness did 
 I impute to you ! You were in my imagination nothing 
 but lightness and inconstancy. Might not a young 
 woman, at the noise of the flames, and of the fall 
 of Sodom, look back, and pity some one person ! I 
 took notice of your eyes, your motion, your air ; I 
 trembled at every thing. You may call such a self- 
 interested conduct treachery, perfidiousn ess, murder. 
 A love which was so like to hatred ought to provoke 
 the utmost contempt and anger. 
 
 It is fit you should know that the veiy moment 
 when I was convinced of your being entirely de- 
 voted to me, when I saw you were infinitely worthy of 
 all my love and acknowledgment, I imagined I could 
 love you no more ; I thought it time to leave off giving 
 you any marks of affection, and I considered that by 
 your holy espousals you were now the peculiar care 
 of heaven, even in the quality of a wife. My jealousy 
 seemed to be extinguished. When God only is our 
 rival, we have nothing to fear ; and being in greater 
 tranquillity than ever before, I dared even to offer up 
 prayers, and beseech him to take you away from my 
 eyes ; but it was not a time to make rash prayers, 
 and my faith was too imperfect to let them be heard. 
 
74 
 
 AliELAllD TO lilLOlSA. 
 
 He who sees the depths and secrets of all men's 
 hearts, saw mine did not agree with my words. 
 N ecessity and despair were the springs of this pro- 
 ceeding. Thns I inadvertently offered an insult 
 to heaven, rather than a sacrifice. God rejected my 
 offering and my prayer, and continued my punish- 
 ment, by suffering me to continue my love. Thus, 
 under the guilt of your vows, and of the passion 
 which preceded them, I must be tormented all the 
 days of my life. 
 
 If God spoke to your heart, as to that of a religious 
 whose innocence had first engaged him to heap on it 
 a thousand favours, I should have matter of comfort ; 
 but to see both of us victims of a criminal love ; to 
 see this love insult us, and invest itself with our very 
 habits, as with spoils it has taken from our devotion, 
 fdls me with horror and tremblings Is this a state of 
 reprobation ? or are these the consequences of a long 
 drunkenness in profane love ? We cannot say love is 
 a drunkenness and a poison, till we are illuminated 
 by grace ; in the mean time it is an evil which we 
 doat on. When we are under such a mistake, the 
 knowledge of our misery is the first step towards 
 amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the 
 glory of God, to find no other foundation in man for 
 his mercy, than man's very weakness ? When he has 
 shewed us this weakness, and we bewail it, he is 
 ready to put forth his omnipotence to assist us. Let 
 us say, for our comfort, that what we suffer is one of 
 those long and terrible temptations which have some- 
 times disturbed the vocations of the most holy. 
 
 God can afford his presence to men, in order to soften 
 their calamities, whenever he shall think fit. It was 
 his pleasure, when you took the veil, to draw you to 
 him by his grace. I saw your eyes, when you spoke 
 your last farewell, fixed upon the cross. It was 
 above six months before you wrote me a letter, nor 
 during all that time did I receive any messpcge from 
 
ABELARD TO ELOI^A. 
 
 75 
 
 you. I admired this silence, which I durst not 
 blame, and could not imitate : I wrote to you ; you 
 returned me no answer : your heart was then shut : 
 but this garden of the spouse is now opened, he is 
 withdrawn from it, and has left you alone : by re- 
 moving from you, he has made trial of you ; call him 
 back, and strive to regain him. We must have the 
 assistance of God, that we may break our chains ; 
 we have engaged too deeply in love, to free ourselves. 
 Our follies have penetrated even into the most sa- 
 cred places. Our amours have been matter of scan- 
 dal to a whole kingdom. They are read and admired ; 
 love, which produced them, has caused them to be 
 described : we shall be a consolation for the failings 
 of youth hereafter. Those who offend after us will 
 think themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose 
 repentance is late, O may it be sincere ! Let us re- 
 pair, as far as is possible, the evils we have done; and 
 let France, which has been the witness of our crimes, 
 be astonished at our penitence. Let us confound all 
 who would imitate our guilt; let us take the part of 
 God against ourselves, and by so doing prevent his 
 judgment. Our former irregularities require tears, 
 shame, and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer 
 uj) these sacrifices from our hearts ; let us blush, let 
 us weep. — If in these weak beginnings. Lord, our 
 heart is not entirely thine, let it at least be made sen- 
 sible that it ought to be so ! 
 
 Deliver yourself Eloisa, from the shameful remains 
 of a x>assion which has taken too deep root. Re- 
 member that the least thought for any other than 
 God is an adultery. If you could see me here with 
 my meagre face, and mclptiicholy air, surrounded 
 vvith numbers of persecuting monks, who are alarmed 
 at my reputation for learning, and offended at my 
 lean visage, as if I threatened them with a reforma- 
 tion; what would you say of my base sighs, and of 
 those unprofitable tears which deceive these credu- 
 
76 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 lous men. Alas! I am humbled under love, and 
 not under the cross. Pity me, and free yourself. If 
 your vocation be, as you say, my work, deprive me 
 not of the merit of it by your continual inquietudes. 
 Tell me that you will honour the habit which covers 
 you, by an inward retirement. Fear God, that you 
 may be delivered from your frailties. Love him, if 
 you would advance in virtue. Be not uneasy in tlie 
 cloister, for it is the dwelling of saints. Embrace 
 your bands, they are the chains of Christ Jesus : he 
 will lighten them, and bear them with you, if you 
 bear them with humility. 
 
 Without growing severe to a passion which yet 
 possesses you, learn from your own misery to succour 
 your weak sisters ; pity them upon consideration of 
 your own faults. And if any thoughts too natural 
 shall importune you, fly to the foot of the cross, and 
 beg for mercy ; there are wounds open ; lament be- 
 fore the dying Deity. At the head of a religious 
 society be not a slave, and having rule over queens, 
 begin to govern yourself. Blush at the least revolt 
 of your senses. Remember that even at the foot of 
 the altar we often sacrifice to lying spirits, and that 
 no Incense can be more agreeable to them, than 
 that which, in those holy places, burns in the heart 
 of a religious still sensible of passion and love. If, 
 during your abode in the world, your soul has acquir- 
 ed a habit of loving, feel it now no more but for Jesus 
 Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which 
 you have wasted upon the world, and upon plea- 
 sure ; demand them of me ; 'tis a robbery which 
 I am guilty of ; take courage, and boldly reproach 
 me with it. 
 
 I have been indeed your master, but it was only to 
 teach you sin. You call me your fathei ; before I 
 had any claim to this title, I deserved that of pari- 
 cide. J am your brother, but it is the affinity of our 
 crimes that has purchased me that distinction. I 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 77 
 
 am called your husband, but it is after a public scan- 
 dal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many 
 venerable names in the superscription of your letter, 
 to do me honour, and flatter your own passion, blot 
 them out, and place in their stead those of a mur- 
 derer, a villain, an enemy, who has conspired against 
 your honour, troubled your puiet, and betrayed your 
 innocence. You would have perished through my 
 means, but for an extraordinary act of grace, which, 
 that you might be saved, has thrown me down in 
 the middle of my discourse. 
 
 This is the idea you ought to have of a fugitive, 
 who endeavours to deprive you of the hope of seeing 
 him any more. But when love has once been sincere, 
 how difficult is it to determine to love no more ! 'Tis 
 a thousand times more easy to renounce the world 
 than love. I hate this deceitful faithless world ; I 
 think no more of it ; but my heart, still wandering, 
 will eternally make me feel the anguish of having 
 lost you, in spite of all the convictions of my under- 
 standing. In the mean time, though I should be so 
 cowardly as to retract what you have read, do not 
 suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts, but under 
 this last notion. Remember my last endeavours 
 were to seduce your heart. You perished by my 
 means, and I with you. The same waves swallowed 
 us both up. We waited for death with indifference, 
 and the same death had carried us headlong to the 
 same punishments. But providence has turned off 
 this blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a 
 haven. There are some whom the mercy of God 
 saves by afflictions. Let my salvation be the fruit 
 of your prayers ! Let me owe it to your tears or ex- 
 emplary holiness ! Though my heart. Lord ! be filled 
 with the love of one of thy creatures, thy hand can, 
 when it pleases, draw out of it those ideas which 
 fill its whole capacity. To love Eloisa truly, is to 
 leave her entirely to that quiet which retirement and 
 G2 
 
78 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 virtue afford. I have resolved it ; this letter shall be 
 my last fault. Adieu. 
 
 If I die here, I v^ill give orders that my body be 
 carried to the house of the Paraclete. You shall 
 see me in that condition ; not to demand tears from 
 you, ^twill then be too late : weep rather for me now, 
 to extinguish that fire which burns me. You shall 
 see me, to strengthen your piety by the honour of 
 this carcase ; and my death, then more eloquent than 
 I can be, will tell you what you love, when you love 
 a man. I hope you will be contented, when you have 
 finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your 
 cold ashes need then fear nothing, and my tomb will 
 by that means be more rich and more renowned. 
 
7U 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARI). 
 
 In the following letter the passion of Eloisa breaks out 
 with more violence than ever. That tvhich she had 
 received from A belard, instead of fortifying her re- 
 solutions, served only to revive in her memory all 
 their past endearments and misfortunes. With this 
 impression, she writes again to her husband ; and 
 appears now not so much in the' character of a reli- 
 gious striving with the remains of her former weak- 
 ness, as in that of an unhappy woman abandoned 
 to all the transports of love and despair » 
 
 To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from 
 Eloisa his well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus. 
 
 I READ the letter I received from you with abun- 
 dance of impatience : in spite of all my misfortunes, 
 I hoped to find nothing in it besides arguments of 
 comfort. But how ingenious are lovers in tormenting 
 themselves! Judge of the exquisite sensibility and 
 force of my love, by that which causes the grief of 
 my soul. I was disturbed at the superscription of 
 your letter ; why d\d you place the name of Eloisa 
 before that of Abelard ; what means this cruel and 
 unjust distinction ? 'Twas your name only, the name 
 of a father, and of a husband, which my eager eyes 
 sought after. I did not look for my own, which 1 
 had much rather, if possible, forget, as being the 
 
80 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 cause of your misfortune. The rules of decorum, 
 and the character of mrisler a.nd director which you 
 have over me, opposed that ceremonious manner of 
 addressing me : and love commanded you to banish 
 it. Alas! you know^ all this but too well. 
 
 Did 7y^ou write thus to me before cruel fortune had 
 ruined my happiness ? I see your heart has deserted 
 me, and you have made greater advancss in the way 
 of devotion than I could wish : alas! I am too weak 
 to follow you ; condescend at least to stay for me, 
 and animate me with your advice. Viill you have 
 the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this stabs 
 my heart ! but the fearful presages you make at the 
 latter end of your letter, those terrible images you 
 draw of your death, quite distract me. Cruel Abe- 
 iai'd ! you ought to have stopped my tears, and 
 you make them flow. You ought to have quieted 
 the disorder of my lieart, and you throw me into 
 despair. 
 
 You desire that after your death I should take care 
 of your ashes, and pay them the last duties. Alas ! 
 in what temper did you conceive these mournful 
 ideas ? And how could you describe them to me ? 
 Did not the apprehension of causing my present death 
 make the pen drop from your hand ? You did not 
 reflect, I suppose, upon all those torments to which 
 you were going to deliver me. Heaven, as severe as 
 it has been against me, is not in so great a degree 
 so, as to permit me to live one moment after you. 
 Life, without my Abelard, is an unsupportable pu- 
 nishment, and death a most exquisite happiness, if 
 by that means I can be united with him. If heaven 
 hears the prayers I continually make for you, your 
 days will be prolonged, and you will bury me. 
 
 Is it not your part to prepare me, by your powerful 
 exhortations, against that great crisis, which shakes 
 the most resolute and confemed minds? Is it not 
 your part to receive my last sighs, take care of my 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 81 
 
 funeral, and give an account of my manners and 
 faith ? Who but you can recommend us worthily to 
 God, and, by the fervour and merit of your prayers, 
 conduct those souls to him which you have joined to 
 his worship by solemn contracts? We expect these 
 pious offices from your paternal charity. After this 
 you will be free from those disquietudes which now mo- 
 lest you, and you will quit life with more ease when- 
 ever it shall please God to call you away. You may 
 follow us content with what you have done, and in 
 a full assurance of our happiness. But till then 
 write not to me any such terrible things ! Are we 
 not already sufficiently miserable ? Must we aggra- 
 vate our sorrows ? Our life here is but a languishing 
 death ; will you hasten it ? Our present disgraces 
 are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, and 
 shall we seek for new arguments of grief in futurities ? 
 " How void of reason are men,'' said Seneca, " to 
 make distant evils present by reflection, and to 
 take pains before death to lose all the comforts of 
 life 
 
 When you have finished your course here below, 
 you say it is your desire that your body be carried 
 to the house of the Paraclete ; to the intent that 
 being always exposed to my eyes, you may be for 
 ever present to my mind ; and that your dead body 
 may strengthen our piety, and animate our prayers. 
 Can you think that the traces you have drawn in my 
 heart can ever be worn out ; or that any length of 
 time can obliterate the memory we have here of your 
 benefits ? And what time shall I find for those prayers 
 you speak of? Alas ! I shall then be filled with other 
 cares. Can so heavy a misfortune leave me a mo- 
 ment's quiet ? Can my feeble reason resist such pow- 
 erful assaults ? When I am distracted and raving (if 
 I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, I shall not 
 soften it by my prayers, but rather provoke it by my 
 cries and reproaches. But how should I pray, ar 
 
82 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 how bear up against my grief? I should be more 
 urgent to follow you, than to pay you the sad cere- 
 monies of burial. It is for you, for x4belard, that I 
 have resolved to live : if you are ravished from me, 
 what use can I make of my miserable days? Alas ! 
 what lamentations should I make, if Heaven, by a 
 cruel pity, should preserve me till that moment ! 
 When I but think of this last separation, I feel all 
 the pangs of death ; what shall I be then, if I should 
 see this dreadful hour ! Forbear, therefore, to infuse 
 into my mind such mournful thoughts, if not for love, 
 at least for pity. 
 
 You desire me to give myself up to my duty, and 
 to be wholly God's, to whom I «m consecrated. How 
 can I do that, when you frighten me with apj)rehen- 
 sions that continually possess my mind day and 
 night ? When an evil threatens us, and it is impossi- 
 ble to ward it off, why do we give up ourselves to 
 the unprofitable fear of it, which is yet even more 
 tormenting than the evil itself? 
 
 What have I to hope for after this loss of you ? 
 What can confine me to earth, when death shall have 
 taken away from me all that was dear upon it ! I 
 have renounced, without difficulty, all the charms of 
 life, preserving only my love, and the secret pleasure 
 of thinking incessantly of you, and hearing that you 
 live. And yet, alas ! you do not live for me, and I 
 dare not even flatter myself with the hopes that I 
 shall ever enjoy a sight of you more ! This is the 
 greatest of my afflictions. Merciless Fortune ! hast 
 thou not persecuted me enough ! Thou dost not give 
 me any respite ; thou hast exhausted all thy ven- 
 geance upon me, and reserved thyself nothing where- 
 by thou may'st appear terrible to others. Thou hast 
 w^earied thyself in tormenting me, and others have 
 nothing now to fear from thy anger. But to what 
 j{)urpose dost thou still arm thyself against me? The 
 wounds I have already received leave no room for 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 83 
 
 new ones. Why cannot I urge thee to kill me ! or ' 
 dost thou fear, amidst the numerous torments thou 
 heapest on me, dost thou fear that such a stroke 
 would deliver me from all? therefore thou pre- 
 servest me from death in order to make me die every 
 moment. 
 
 Dear Abelard, pity my despair ! Was ever any 
 tiling so miserable ? The higher you raised me above 
 other women who envied me your love, the more sen- 
 sible am I now of the loss of your heart. I was ex- 
 alted to the top of happiness, only that I might have 
 a more terrible fall. Nothing could formerly be 
 compared to my pleasure, and nothing now can equal 
 my misery. My glory once raised the envy of my 
 rivals ; my present wretchedness moves the compas- 
 sion of all that see me. My fortune has been always 
 in extremes, she has heaped on me her most delight- 
 ful favours, that she might load me with the greatest 
 of her afflictions. Ingenious in tormenting me, she 
 has made the memory of the joys I have lost an inex- 
 haustible spring of my tears. Love, which possessed 
 was her greatest gift, being taken away occasions 
 all my sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely 
 succeeded, and I find my present afflictions propor- 
 tionably bitter as the transports which charmed me 
 were sweet. 
 
 But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, 
 that we began to be miserable at a time when we 
 seemed the least to deserve it. While we gave our- 
 selves up to the enjoyment of a criminal love, nothing 
 opposed our vicious pleasures. But scarce had we 
 retrenched what was unlawful in our passion, and 
 taken refuge in marriage against that remorse which 
 might have pursued us, but the whole wrath of hea- 
 ven fell on us in all its weight. But how barbarous 
 was your punishment ! the very remembrance makes 
 me shake with horror. Could an outrageous hus- 
 band make a villain suffer more that had dishonoured 
 
84 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 his bed? Ah ! what right had a cruel uncle over us ! 
 We were joined to each other even before the altar, 
 which should have protected you from the rage of your 
 enemies. Must a wife draw on you that punishment 
 which ought not to fall on any but an adulterous 
 lover! Besides, we were separated; you were busy 
 in your exercises, and instructed a learned auditory 
 in mysteries, which the greatest geniuses before you 
 were not able to penetrate ; and I, in obedience to 
 you, retired to a cloister. I there spent whole days 
 in thinking of you, and sometimes meditating on 
 holy lessons, to which I endeavoured to apply my- 
 self. In this very juncture you became the victim 
 of the most unhappy love. You alone expiated 
 the crime common to us both : you only were punish- 
 ed, though both of us were guilty. Yon, who 
 were least so, was the object of the whole vengeance 
 of a barbarous man. But why should I rave at your 
 assassins ! I, wretched I, have ruined you ! I have 
 been the original of all your misfortunes ! Good 
 heaven! why was I born to be the occasion of so 
 tragical an accident ! How dangerous is it for a great 
 man to suffer himself to be moved by our sex ! He 
 ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility 
 of heart, against all our charms. " Hearken, my 
 son," said formerly the wisest of men, " attend and 
 keep my instructions : If a beautiful woman by her 
 looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to 
 be overcome by a corrupt inclination ; reject the 
 poison she offers, and follow not the paths which she 
 directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and 
 death." I have long examined things, and have 
 found that death itself is a less dangerous evil than 
 beauty. Tis the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal snare, 
 from which it is impossible ever to get free. 'Twas 
 woman which threw down the first man from that 
 glorious condition in which Heaven had placed him. 
 She who was created in order to partake of his hap- 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 85 
 
 piness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright 
 had been thy glory, Sampson, if thy heart had been 
 as firm against the charms of Delilah, as against the 
 weapons of the Philistines ! A woman disarmed and 
 betrayed thee, who had been a glorious conqueror of 
 armies! Thousawest thyself delivered into the hands 
 of thy enemies! Thou wast deprived of thy eyes, 
 those inlets of love into thy soul ! Distracted and 
 desparing didst thou die, without any consolation 
 but that of involving thy enemies in thy destruction ! 
 Solomon, that he might please women, forsook the 
 care of pleasing God. That king whose wisdom 
 princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God 
 had chose to build him a temple, abandoned the wor- 
 ship of those very altars he had defended, and pro- 
 ceeded to such a pitch of folly as even to burn in- 
 cense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than 
 his wife. What temptatio ns did he not bear ! The 
 evil spirit who had declared himself his persecutor, 
 employed a woman as an instrument to shake his 
 constancy. And the same evil spirit made Eloisa 
 an instrument to ruin Abelard ! All the poor comfort 
 I have is, that I am not the voluntary cause of your 
 misfortunes. T have not betrayed you ; but my con- 
 stancy and love have been destructive to you. If I 
 have committed a crime in having loved you with 
 constancy, I shall never be able to repent of that 
 crime. Indeed I gave myself up too much to the 
 captivity of those soft errors into which my rising 
 passion seduced me. I have endeavoured to please 
 yoUy even at the ex pence of my virtue, and there- 
 fore deserve those pains I feel. My guilty trans- 
 ports could not but have a tragical end ! As soon as 
 I was persuaded of your love, alas ! I scarce delayed 
 a moment resigning myself to all your protestations. 
 To be beloved by Abelard was, in my esteem, too 
 much glory, and I too impatiently desired it, not to 
 beliere it immediately. I endeavoured at nothing 
 H 
 
86 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 but convincing you of my utmost passion, I made 
 no use of those defences of disdain and honour ; those 
 enemies of pleasure, which tyrannize over our sex, 
 made in me but a weak and unprofitable resistance. 
 I sacrificed all to my love, and I forced my duty to 
 give place to the ambition of making happy the most 
 gallant and learned person of the age. If any con- 
 sideration had been able to stop me, it v\ ould have 
 been without doubt the interest of my love. I feared 
 lest having nothing further for you to desire, your pas- 
 sion migh tbecome languid, and you might seek for new 
 pleasures in some new conquest. But it was easy 
 lor you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my 
 own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other 
 more certain evils ; and to have considered that the 
 idea of lost enjoyments would be the trouble of my 
 whole life. 
 
 How happy should I be, could I wash out with my 
 tears the memory of those pleasures v/hich yet I 
 think of with delight ! At least I wiW exert some 
 generous endeavour, and, by smothering in my heart 
 those desires to which the frailty of my nature may 
 give birth, I will exercise torments upon myself, 
 like those the rage of your enemies has made you 
 suifer. I will endeavour by that means to satisfy 
 you at least, if I cannot appease an angry God. For 
 to show you what a deplorable condition J am in, 
 and how far my repentance is from being available, 
 I dare even accuse Heaven every moment of cruelty, 
 for delivering you into those snares which were pre^ 
 pared for you. My repinings kindle the divine 
 wrath, when I should endeavour to draw down 
 mercy. 
 
 iln order to expiate a crmie, 'tis not sufficient 
 that we bear the punishment; whatever we suffer is 
 accounted as nothing, if the passions still continue, 
 and the heart is inflamed with the same desires. 'Tis 
 an easy matter to confess a weakness, and to inflict 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 87 
 
 some punishment upon ourselves; but it is the last 
 violence to our nature to extinguish the memory of 
 pleasures which, by a svreet habit, have gained abso- 
 lute possession of our minds. How many persons do 
 we observe who make an outward confession of their 
 faults, yet, far from being afflicted for them, take a 
 new pleasute in the relating them. Bitterness of 
 heart ought to accompany the confession of the 
 mouth, yet that very rarely happens. I who have 
 experienced so may pleasures in loving you, feel, in 
 spite of myself, that I cannot repent of them, nor 
 forbear enjoying them over again as much as is pos- 
 sible, by recollecting them in my memory. What- 
 ever endeavours I use, on whatever side I turn me, 
 the sweet idea still pursues me, and every object 
 brings to my mind what I ought to forget. During 
 the still night, when my heart ought to be quiet 
 in the midst of sleep, which suspends the great- 
 est disturbances, I cannot avoid those illusions 
 my heart entertains. I think I am still with my 
 dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to him, and hear 
 him answer. Charmed with each other, we quit 
 our philosophic studies to entertain ourselves with 
 our passion. Sometimes, too, I seem to be a wit- 
 ness to the bloody enterprize of our enemies; I op- 
 pose their fury ; I fill our ^ipartment with fearful 
 cries, and in the moment I wake in tears. Even 
 into holy places, before the altar, I carry with me 
 the memory of our guilty loves. They are my 
 whole business ; and, far from lamenting for having 
 been seduced, I sigh for having lost them. 
 
 I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) 
 the time and place in which you first declared 
 your love to me, and swore you would love me 
 till death. Your words, your oaths, are all deeply 
 graven in my heart. The disorder of my discourse 
 discovers to every one the trouble of my mind. 
 My sighs betray mo; and your name is conti- 
 
88 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 nually in my mouth. When 1 am in this condition 
 why dost not thou, O Lord! pity my weakness, and 
 strengthen me by thy grace ? You are happy, 
 Abelard, this grace has prevented you ; and your 
 misfortune has been the occasion of your finding 
 rest. The punishment of your body has cured 
 the deadly wounds of your soul. The tempest 
 hast driven you into the haven. God, who seem- 
 ed to If.y his hand heavily upon you, sought only to 
 help you. He is a father chastising, and not an 
 enemy revenging ; a wise physician, putting you to 
 some pain in order to preserve your life. I am 
 a thousand times more to be lamented than you ; 
 I have a thousand passions to combat with. I 
 must resist those fires which love kindles in a 
 young heart. Our sex is nothing but weakness, 
 and I have the greater difficulty to defend myself, 
 because the enemy that attacks me pleases ; I 
 doat on the danger which threatens me, how then 
 can I avoid falling ! 
 
 In the midst of these struggles I endeavour, at 
 least, to conceal my weakness from those you have 
 entrusted to my care. All who are about me 
 admire my virtue ; but could their eyes penetrate 
 into my heart, what would they not discover ! 
 My passions there are in a rebellion ; I perside over 
 others, but cannot rule myself. I have but a 
 false covering, and this seeming virtue is a real 
 vice. Men judge me praise-worthy, but I am 
 guilty before God, from whose all-seeing eye no- 
 thing is hid, and who views, through all their 
 foldings, the secrets of all hearts. I cannot 
 escape his discovery. And yet it is a great deal 
 to me to maintain even this appearance of virtue. 
 This troublesome hypocrisy is in some sort com- 
 mendable. I give no scandal to the world, which 
 is so easy to take bad impressions. I do not shake 
 the virtue of these feeble ones who are under my 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 89 
 
 conduct. With my heart full of the love of man, 
 I exhort them, at least, to love only God. Charmed 
 ^.vith the pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavour 
 to show them that they are all deceit and va- 
 nity. I have just strength enough to conceal 
 from them my inclinations, and 1 look upon that 
 as a powerful effect of grace. If it is not sufficient 
 to make me embrace virtue, it is enough to keep me 
 from committing sin. 
 
 And yet it is in vain to endeavour to separate 
 these two things. They must be guilty who^ 
 merit nothing ; and they depart from virtue who 
 delay to approach it. Besides, we ought to have 
 no other motive than the love of God ; alas ! what 
 can I then hope for ! I own, to my confusion, 
 I fear more the offending a man, than the pro- 
 voking God ; and study less to please him than 
 you. Yes, it was your command only and not a 
 sincere vocation, as is imagined, that shut me 
 up in these cloisters. I sought to give you ease, 
 and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am 
 1 ? I tear myself from all that pleases me : I bury 
 myself here alive ; I exercise myself in the most 
 rigid fastings and such severities as cruel laws 
 impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sor- 
 rows ; and, notwithstanding this, I deserve nothing 
 for all the hardships I suffer. My false piety has 
 long deceived you as well as others: you have 
 thought me easy, yet I was more disturbed than 
 ever. You persuaded yourself I was wholly taken 
 up with my duty, yet I had no business but love. 
 Under this mistake you desire my prayers ; alas ! 
 I must expect yours. Do not presume upon my 
 virtue and my care. I am wavering, and you 
 must fix me by your advice. I am yet feeble, you 
 must sustain and guide me by your counsel. 
 
 What occasion had you to praise me ? Praise 
 is often hurtful to those on whom it is bestowed. 
 A secret vanity springs up in the heart, blinds 
 H2 
 
90 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 us, and conceals from us wounds that are il 
 cured. A seducer flatters us, and at the same time 
 aims at our destruction. A sincere friend dis- 
 guises nothing from us, and far from passing a 
 light hand over the wound, makes us feel it more 
 intensely by applying remedies. Why do you not 
 deal after this manner with me ? Will you be es- 
 teemed a base dangerous flatterer ; or, if you chance 
 to see any thing commendable in me, have you no 
 fear that vanity, which is so natural to all women, 
 should quite efface it ? But let us not judge of virtue 
 by outward appearances, for then the reprobate, as 
 well as the elect, may lay claim to it. An artful 
 imposter may by his address gain more admiration 
 than the true zeal of a saint. 
 
 The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings 
 are very difficult to be discovered. The praises 
 you give me are the more dangerous, in regard 
 that I love the person who gives them, The more 
 I desire to please you, the readier am I to believe 
 all the merit you attribute to me. Ah, think 
 rather how to support my weaknesses by whole- 
 some remonstrances ! Be rather fearful than con- 
 fident of my salvation ; say our virtue is found- 
 ed upon weakness, and that those only will be 
 crowned who have fought with the greatest dif- 
 ficulties ; but I seek not for that crown which is 
 the reward of victory, I am content to avoid only 
 the danger. It is easier to keep ofl', than to 
 win a battle. There are several degrees in glory, 
 and I am not ambitious of the highest ; those I 
 leave to souls of great courage who have been 
 often victorious. I seek not to conquer, out of 
 fear lest I should be overcome. Happy enough, 
 if I can escape shipwreck, and at last gain the 
 port. Heaven commands me to renounce that 
 fatal passion which unites me to you; but, oh! 
 my heart will never be able to consent to ii? 
 Adieu ! 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 91 
 
 LETTER V, 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 Eloisa had been dangerously ill at the convent of (he 
 Paraclete : immediately upon her recovery she icrotc 
 this letter to Ahelard, She seems now to have dis- 
 engaged herself from him, and to have resolved to 
 think of nothing but repentance ; yet discovers some 
 emotions which make it doubtful whether devotion 
 had entirely triumphed over her passion, 
 
 DEAR Abelard, you expect, perhaps, that I 
 should accuse you of negligence. You have not an- 
 swered my last letter; and, thanks to heaven, in the 
 condition I now am, it is a happiness to me that you 
 show so much insensibility for the fatal passion 
 which had engaged me to you ; at last, Abelard, you 
 have lost Eloisa for ever ! Notwithstanding all the 
 oaths I made to think of nothing but you only, and 
 to be entertained with nothing but you, I have ba- 
 nished you from my thoughts ; I have forgot you. 
 Thou charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou 
 wilt no more be my happiness ! Dear image of Abe- 
 lard, thou wilt no more follow me every where, I 
 will no more remember thee ! O, celebrated merit of 
 a man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of 
 his age ! O, enchanting pleasures to which Eloisa 
 entirely resigned herself, you, you have been my 
 tormentors! I confess, Abelard, without a blush, 
 my infidelity. Let my Inconetancy teach the world 
 
92 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 that there is iio depending upon the promises of 
 woman; they are all subject to change. This trou- 
 bles you, Abelard ; this news, without doubt, sur- 
 prises you ; you could nhYer imagine Eloisa should 
 be inconstant. She was prejudiced by so strong an 
 inclination to you, that you cannot conceive how time 
 could alter it. But be undeceived ; I am going to 
 discover to 3'ou my falseness ; though, instead of re- 
 proaching me, I persuade myself you will shed tears 
 of joy. When I shall have told you what rival hath 
 ravished my heart from you, you will praise my in- 
 constancy, and will pray this rival to fix it. By 
 this you may judge that it is God alone that takes 
 Eloisa from you. Yes, my dear Abelard, he gives 
 my mind that tranquillity which a quick remembrance 
 of our misfortunes would not suffer me to enjoy. 
 Just Heaven ! what other rival could take me from 
 you ! Could you imagine it possible for any mortal 
 to blot you from my heart? Could you think me 
 guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abe- 
 lard to any other but to God ? No, I believe you 
 have done me justice in this point. I question not 
 but you are impatient to know what means God used 
 to accomplish so great an end ; J will tell you, and 
 wonder at the secret ways of Providence. Some 
 few days after you sent me your last letter I fell 
 dangerousl}^ ill ; the physicians gave me over ; and 
 I expected certain death. Then it was that my 
 passion, which always before seemed innocent, ap- 
 j)eared criminal to me. My memory represented 
 faithfully to me all the past actions of my life ; and 
 I confess to you, my love was the only pain I felt. 
 Death, which till then I had always considered as 
 at a distance, now presented itself to me such as it 
 appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of 
 God, now I was going to experience itf and I re- 
 pented I had made no better use of his grace. 
 Those tender letters I have wrote to you, and those 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 5)3 
 
 passionate conversations! have had with you, give me 
 as much pain now^ as they formerly did pleasure. Ah ! 
 miserable Eloisa, said I, if it is a crime to give one's 
 self lip to such soft transports ; and if, after this life 
 is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why 
 didst thou not resist so dangerous an inclination ! 
 Think on the tortures that are prepared foi thee, consi- 
 der with terror that store of torments, and recollect at 
 the same time those pleasures which thy deluded soul 
 thought so entrancing. Ah ! pursued I, dost thou 
 not almost despair for having rioted in such false 
 pleasures? In short, Abelard, imagine all the re- 
 morse of mind I suffered, and you will not be asto- 
 nished at my change. 
 
 Solitude is insupportable to a mind which is not 
 easy ; its troubles increase in the midst of silence, 
 and retirement heightens them. Since I have been 
 shut up within these walls, I have done nothing but 
 weep for our misfortunes. This cloister has resounded 
 with my cries; and, like a wretch condemned to 
 eternal slavery, I have worn out my days in grief and 
 sighing. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design 
 -upon me, I have offended him : I have looked upon 
 this sacred refuge like a frightful prison, and have 
 borne with unwillingness the yoke of the Lord. 
 Instead of sanctifying myself by a life of penitence, 
 I have confirmed my reprobation. What a fatal 
 wandering ! But Abelard, I have torn off the bandage 
 which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon the emo- 
 tions which I have felt, I have made myself worthy 
 of your esteem. You are no more that amorous Abe- 
 lard wlio, to gain a private conversation with me by 
 night, used incessantly to contrive new ways to 
 deceive the vigilance of our observers. The mis- 
 fortune which happened to you after so many 
 happy moments gave you a horror for vice, and you 
 instantly consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, 
 and seemed to submit to this necessity willingly. 
 
94 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 I indeed, more tender than you, and more sensible of 
 soft pleasures, bore this misfortune with extreme 
 impatience. You have heard my exclamation against 
 your enemies. Yoif have seen my whole resentment 
 in those letters T wrote to you. 'Twas this, without, 
 doubt, which deprived me of the esteem of my Abe- 
 lard. You were alarmed at my transports, and, if 
 you will confess the truth, you perhaps despaired of 
 my salvation. You could not foresee that Eloisa 
 would conquer so reigning a passion, but you have 
 been deceived, Abelard; my weakness, when sup- 
 ported by grace, hath not hindered me from obtain- 
 ing a complete victory. Restore me then to your 
 good opinion ; your own piety ought to solicit you 
 to this. 
 
 But what secret trouble rises in my soul, what un- 
 Ihought-of motion opposes the resolution I have formed 
 of sighing no more for Abelard ! Just Heaven ! have 
 I not yet triumphed over my love ? Unhappy Eloisa ! 
 as long as thou drawest a breath, it is decreed thou 
 must love Abelard ! Weep, unfortunate wretch that 
 thou art, thou never had a more just occasion ! Now 
 I ought to die with grief ; grace had overtaken me, 
 and I had promised to be faithful to it ; but 1 now 
 perjure myself, and sacrifice even grace to Abelard. 
 This sacrilegious sacrifice fills up the measure of my 
 iniquities. After this can I hope God should open 
 to me the treasures of his mercy ! Have I not tired 
 out his forgiveness? I began to offend him from tlie 
 moment I first saw Abelard; an unhappy sympathy 
 engaged us both in a criminal commerce ; and God 
 raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament and 
 hate the misfortune which hath lighted upon us, and 
 adore the cause. Ah ! I ought rather to explain 
 this accident as the secret ordinance of Heaven, 
 which disapproved of our engagement, and apply my- 
 self to extirpate my passion. How much better 
 were it entirely to forget the object of it, tlian to pre- 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 serve the memory of it, so fatal to the quiet of my 
 life and salvation ! Great God ! shall Abelard always 
 possess my thoughts ! can I never free myself from 
 those chains v^^hich bind me to him ! But perhaps I 
 am unreasonably afraid ; virtue directs all my mo- 
 tions, and they are all subject to grace. Fear no 
 more, dear Abelard ! I have no longer any of those 
 sentiments which, being described in my letters, 
 have occasioned you so much trouble. I will no 
 mere endeavour, by the relation of those pleasures 
 our new-born passion gave us, to awaken that crimi- 
 nal fondness you may have for me. I free you from 
 all your oaths ; forget the name of lover and hus- 
 band, but keep always that of father. I expect no 
 more from you those tender protestations, and those 
 letters so proper to keep up the commerce of love. 
 I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and 
 and wholesome directions. The path of holiness, 
 however thorny it may be, will yet appear agreeable 
 when I walk in your steps. You will always find 
 me ready to follow you. I shall read with more 
 pleasure the letters in which you shall describe to 
 me the advantages of virtue, than ever I did those 
 by which you so artfully instilled the fatal poison of 
 our passion. You cannot now be silent, without a 
 crime. When I was possessed with so violent a 
 love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, 
 how many letters did I send you before I could ob- 
 tain one from you ! You denied me in my misery the 
 only comfort which was left me, because you thought 
 it pernicious, You endeavoured by severities to 
 force me to forget you ; nor can I blame you ; but 
 now you have nothing to fear. A lucky disease, 
 which Providence seemed to have chastised me with 
 for my sanctification, hath done what all human 
 efforts, and your cruelty, in vain attempted. I see 
 now the vanity of that happiness which we had set 
 our hearts upon, as if we were never to have lost it. 
 
96 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 What fears, what uneasiness have we been obliged 
 to suffer ! 
 
 No, Lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but 
 that which virtue gives! The heart amidst all 
 worldly delights feels a sting ; it is uneasy and rest- 
 less till fixed on thee. \V hat have I not suffered, 
 Abelard, while I kept alive in my retirement those 
 fires which ruined me in the world ? I saw with horror 
 the walls which surround me, the hours seemed as 
 long as years. I repented a thousand times the 
 having buried myself here. But since grace has 
 opened my eyes all the scene is changed. Solitude 
 looks charming, and the tranquillity which I behold 
 here enters my very heart. In the satisfactions of 
 doing my duty, I feel a pleasure above all that riches, 
 pomp, or sensuality could afford. IVIy quiet has, ino 
 deed, cost me dear ; I have bought it even at the price 
 of my love ; I have offered a violent sacrifice, and 
 which seemed above my power. I have torn you 
 from my heart, and be not jealous; God reigns there 
 in your stead, who ought always to have possessed it 
 entire. Be content with having a place in my mind, 
 which you shall never lose ; I shall always take a 
 secret pleasure in thinking of you and esteem it a 
 glory to obey those rules you shall give me. 
 
 This very moment I receive a letter from you ; 
 T will read it and answer it immediately. You shall 
 see by my exactness in writing to you, that you are 
 
 always dear to me. You very obligingly reproach 
 
 ine for delaying so long to write you any news : my 
 illness must excuse that. I omit no opportunities of 
 giving you marks of my remembrance. I thank you 
 for the uneasiness you say my silenc<i has caused you, 
 and the kind fears you express concerning my health. 
 Yours, you tell me, is but weakly, and you thought 
 lately you should have died. With what indiffer- 
 ence, cruel man ! do you acquaint me with a thing 
 so certain to afflict me ! I told you in my former 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 97 
 
 letter how unhappy I should be if you died ; and if 
 you loved me, you would moderate the rigour of your 
 austere life. I represented to you the occasion I 
 had for your advice, and consequently the reason there 
 was you should take care of yourself. But I will 
 not tire you with the repetition of the same things. 
 You desire us not to forget you in our prayers. Ah ! 
 dear Abelard, you may depend upon the zeal of this 
 society, it is devoted to you, and you cannot justly 
 charge it with forgetfulness. You are our father, 
 ' we your children ; you are our guide, and we re- - 
 sign ourselves with assurance in your piety ; you 
 command, we obey ; we faithfully execute what you 
 have prudently directed; we impose no penance 
 on ourselvesbut what you recommend, lest we should 
 rather follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. 
 In a word, nothing is thought rightly done if without- 
 Abelard's approbation. You inform me of one thing 
 that perplexes me, that you have heard that some 
 of our sisters gave bad examples, and that there is 
 a general looseness amongst them. Ought this to 
 seem strange to you, who know how monasteries are 
 filled now-a-days? Do fathers consult the inclina- 
 tions of their children when they settle them? Are 
 not interest and policy their only rules? This is the 
 reason that monasteries are often filled with those 
 who are a scandal to them. But I conjure you to 
 tell me what are the irregularities you have heard of, 
 and to teach me a proper remedy for them. I have 
 not yet observed that looseness you mention ; wheri 
 I have I will take due care. I walk my rounds every 
 night, and make those I catch abroad return to their 
 chambers ; for I remember all the adventures which 
 happened in the monasteries near Paris. You end 
 your letter with a general deploring of your unhap- 
 piness, and wish for death as the end of a trouble- 
 some life. Is it possible a genius so great as yours 
 should never get above his past misfortunes ! What 
 I 
 
9ft ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 would the world say, should they read your letters 
 as I do ? Would they consider the noble motive of 
 your retirement, or not rather think you had shut 
 yourself up only to lament the condition to which 
 my uncle's revenge had reduced you ? What would 
 your young pupils say, who come so far to hear 
 you, and prefer your severe lectures to the soft- 
 ness of a worldly life, if they should see you secretly 
 a slave to your passions, and sensible of all those 
 weaknesses from which your rules can secure them? 
 This Abelard they so much admire ; this great per- 
 sonage which guides them, would lose his fame, and 
 become the scorn of his pupils. If these reasons 
 are not sufficient to give you constancy in your mis- 
 fortunes, cast your eyes upon me, and admire my 
 resolution of shutting myself up by your example. 
 I was young when we were separated, and (if I 
 dare believe what you were always telling me) wor- 
 thy of any gentleman's afl'ections. If I had loved 
 nothing in Abelard but sensual pleasure, a thousand 
 agreeable young men might have comforted me upon 
 my loss of him. You know what I have done, excuse 
 me, therefore, from repeating it ; think of those as- 
 surances I gave you of loving you with the utmost 
 tenderness. I dried your tears with kisses, and be- 
 cause you were less powerful I became less reserved. 
 Ah ! if you had loved with delicacy, the oaths I 
 made, the transports I accomj^anied them with, the 
 innocent caresses I profusely gave you, all this sure 
 might have comforted you. Had you observed me 
 • to grow by degrees indifferent to you, you might 
 have had reason to despair ; but you never received 
 greater marks of my passion, "than after that cruel 
 revenge upon you. 
 
 Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, 
 such murmurs against Fortune ; you are not the only 
 one she has persecuted, and you ought to forget her 
 outrages. What a shan[ie is it for a i)hilosopher not 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 99 
 
 to be comforted for an accident that might have hap- 
 pened to any man. Govern yourself by my example. 
 I was born with violent passions ; I daily strive with 
 the most tender emotions, and glory in triumphing 
 and subjecting them to reason. Must a weak mind 
 fortify one that is so much superior ! But whither 
 am I transported ! Is this discourse directed to my 
 dear Abelard ! One that practises all those virtues 
 he teaches ! If you complain of Fortune, it is not so 
 much that you feel her strokes, as that you cannot 
 show your enemies how miJch to blame they were in 
 attempting to hurt you. Leave them, Abelard, to 
 exhaast their malice, and continue to charm your 
 auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Hea- 
 ven seems to have reserved for you ; your enemies, 
 struck with the splendour of your reasoning, will 
 do you justice. How happy should I be, could I see 
 all the world as entirely persuaded of your probity 
 as I am. Your learning is allowed by all the world ; 
 your greatest enemies confess you are ignorant of 
 nothing that the mind of man is capable of know- 
 ing. 
 
 My dear husband, (this is the last time I shall use 
 that expression) shall I never see you again ? Shall 
 I never have the pleasure of embracing you before 
 death? What dost thou say, wretched Eloisa! Dost 
 thou know what thou desirest ! Canst thou behold 
 those lively eyes without recollecting those amorous 
 glances which have been so fatal to thee ! Canst 
 tiiou view that majestic air of Abelard, without en- 
 tertaining a jealousy of every one that sees so charm- 
 ing a man ! that mouth which cannot be looked upon 
 without desire ! in short, all the person of Abelard 
 cannot be viewed by any woman without danger. 
 Desire, therefore, no more to see Abelard; if the 
 memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, 
 Eloisa, what will not his presence do! What desires 
 will it not excite in thy soul! How will itbe posdble 
 
100 
 
 ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 for thee to keep thy reason at the sight of so amiable 
 a man ! I will own to you what makes the greatest 
 pleasure I have in my retirement. After having 
 passed the day in thinking of you, full of the dear 
 idea, I give myself up at night to sleep: then it is 
 that Eloisa, who dares not without trembling think 
 of you by day, resigns herself entirely to the plea- 
 sure of hearing you, and speaking to you. 1 see 
 you, Abelard, and glut my eyes with the sight ; some- 
 times you entertain me with the story of your secret 
 troubles and grievances, and create in me a sensible 
 sorrow ; sometimes, forgetting the perpetual obsta- 
 cles to our desires, you press me to make you happy, 
 and I easily yield to your transports. Sleep gives 
 what your enemies' rage has deprived you of ; and 
 our souls, animated with the same passion, are sen- 
 sible of the same pleasure. But, oh! you delightful 
 illusions, soft errors, how soon do you vanish away ! 
 At my awaking I open my eyes to see no Abelard ; 
 I stretch out my arm to take hold of him, but he is 
 not there ; I call him, he hears me not. What a fool 
 am I to tell you my dreams, who are insensible of 
 these pleasures ! But do you, Abelard, never see 
 Eloisa in your sleep ? How does she appear to you ? 
 Do you entertain her with the same tender language 
 as formerly, when Fulbert committed her to your 
 care ? When you awake, are you i^leased or sorry ? 
 Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a mistaken lover. I 
 must no more expect that vivacity from you which 
 once animated all your actions. It is no more time 
 to require from you a perfect correspondence of de- 
 sires. We have bound ourselves to severe auste- 
 rities, and must follow them, let them cost never 
 so dear. Let us think of our duties in these rigours, 
 and make a good use of that necessity which keeps 
 us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your 
 course ; your desires and ambitions will be no obsta- 
 cle to your salvation. Eloisa only must lament ; she 
 
ELOISA TO ABELARD. 
 
 101 
 
 only must weep, without being certain wiiether all 
 her tears will be available or not to her salvation. 
 
 I had like to have ended my letter without ac- 
 quainting you with wliat happened here a few days 
 ago. A j^oung nun, who was one of those who are 
 forced to take up with a convent without any ex- 
 amination whether it will suit with their tempers or 
 not, is, by a stratagem I know nothing of, escaped ; 
 and, as they say, fled with a young gentleman she 
 / was in love with into England. I have ordered all 
 the house to conceal the matter. Ah ! Abelard, if 
 you were near us these disorders would not happen. 
 All the sisters, charmed with seeing and hearing you, 
 would think of nothing but practising your rules 
 and directions. The young nun had never formed 
 so criminal a design as that of breaking her vows, 
 had you been at our head to exhort us to live holily. 
 If your eyes were witnesses of our actions, they 
 would be innocent. When we slipt you w^ould lift 
 us up, and establish us by your counsels ; we should 
 march with sure steps in the rough paths of virtue. 
 I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take too much 
 pleasure in writing to you. I ought to burn my 
 letter. It shows you I am still engaged in a deep 
 passion for you, though at the beginning of it I de- 
 signed to persuade you of the contrary; I am sensible 
 of the motions both of grace and passion, and by 
 turns jdeld to each. Have pity, Abelard, of the 
 condition to which you have brought me, and make 
 in some measure the latter days of my life as quiet 
 as the first have been uneasy and disturbed. 
 
 1 2 
 
102 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 Abelandy having at last conquered the remains qf his 
 unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to 
 so dangerous a correspondence as that between Eloisa 
 and himself. The following letter therefore, though 
 written with no less concern than his former, is free 
 from mixtures of a worldly passion, and is full of 
 the warmest sentiments of piety, and the most moving 
 exhortations, 
 
 WRITE no more to me, Eloisa, write no more to 
 Ine ; it is time to end a commerce which makes our 
 mortifications of no advantage to us. We retired 
 from the world to sanctify ourselves; and by a con- 
 duct directly contrary to Christian morality, we be- 
 come odious to Jesus Christ. Let us no more deceive 
 ourselves, by flattering ourselves with the remem- 
 brance of our past pleasures, we shall make our 
 lives troublesome, and we shall be incapable of re- 
 lishing the sweets of solitude. Let us make a good 
 use of our austerities, and no longer preserve the 
 ideas of our crimes amongst the severities of peni- 
 tence. Let a mortification of body and mind, a 
 strict fasting, continual solitude, profound and holy 
 meditations, and a sincere love of God, succeed our 
 former irregularities. 
 
 Let us try to carry religious perfection to a very 
 diflicult point. It is beautiful to find in Christianity 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 103 
 
 minds so disengaged from the earth, from the creatures, 
 and themselves, that they seem to act independently 
 of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them as 
 their slaves. We can never raise ourselves to too 
 great heights w^hen God is the object. Be our en- 
 deavours ever so great, they will alw^ays come short 
 of reaching that exalted divinity which even our ap- 
 prehensions cannot reach. Let us act for God's glory, 
 independent of the creatures or ourselves, without 
 any regard to our own desires, or the sentiments of 
 others. Were we in this temper of mind, Eloisa, I 
 would willingly make my abode at the Paraclete. 
 My earnest care for a house I have founded, would 
 draw a thousand blessings on it. I would instruct it 
 by my words, and animate it by my example. J 
 would watch over the lives of my sisters, and would 
 command nothing but what I myself would perform. 
 I would direct you to pray, meditate, labour, and 
 keep vows of silence ; and I would myself pray, me- 
 ditate, labour, and be silent. 
 
 However, when I spoke it should be to lift you up 
 when you should fall, to strengthen you in your 
 weaknesses, to enlighten you in that darkness and 
 obscurity which might at any time surprise you. I 
 would comfort you under those severities used by 
 persons of great virtue. I would moderate the 
 vivacity of your zeal and piety, and give your virtue 
 an even temperament : I would point out those duties 
 which you ought to know, and satisfy you in those 
 doubts which the weakness of your reason might 
 occasion. I would be your master and father ; and 
 by a marvellous talent I would become lively, slow, 
 soft, or severe, according to the different characters 
 of those I should guide in the painful path of chris- 
 tian perfection. 
 
 But whither does my vain imagination carry me ! 
 Ah, Eloisa, how far are we from such a happy temper ! 
 Your heart still burns with that fatal fire which you 
 
104 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and 
 uneasiness. Think not, Eloisa, that I enjoy here a 
 perfect peace ; I will, for the last time, open my 
 heart to you ; I am not yet disengaged from you ; I 
 fight against my excessive tenderness for you ; yet, 
 in spite of all my endeavours, the remaining frailty 
 makes me but too sensible of your sorrows, and gives 
 me a shave in them. Your letters have, indeed, 
 moved me ; I could not read with indifference 
 characters wrote by that dear hand. I sigh, I weep, 
 and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my 
 weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Eloisa, is 
 the miserable condition of Abelard ! The world, 
 which generally errs in its notions, thinks I am easy ; 
 and, as if I had loved only in you the gratification of 
 sense, imagines I have now forgot you ; but what a 
 mistake is this ! People, indeed, did not mistake in 
 thinking, when we separated, that shame and grief 
 for having been so cfuelly used made me abandon the 
 world. ^Twas not, as you know, a sincere repent- 
 ance for having offended God v/hich inspired me vv ith 
 ft design of retiring ; however, I considered the acci- 
 dent which happened to us as a secret design of Pro- 
 vidence to punish our crimes ; and only looked upon 
 Fulbert as the instrument of divine vengeance. — 
 Grace drew me into an asylum, where I might yet 
 have remained, if the rage of my enemies would have 
 permitted : I have endured all their persecutions, not 
 doubting but God himself raised them up in order to 
 purify me. 
 
 When he saw me perfectly obedient to his holy 
 will, he permitted that I should justify my doctrine ; 
 I made its purity public, and showed in the end that 
 my faith was not only orthodox, but also perfectly 
 clear from even the suspicion of novelty. 
 
 I should be happy if I had none to fear but my 
 enemies, and no other hindevance to my salvation but 
 their calumny ; but, Eloisa, yon make me trouble ; 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 1 05 
 
 your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to 
 a fatal passion; and yet if you cannot conquer it 
 you cannot be saved ; and what part w^ould you have 
 me take in this case ? Would you have me stifle the 
 inspiration of the Holy Ghost ? Shall I, to soothe you, 
 dry up those tears which the evil spirit makes you 
 shed ; shall this be the fruit of my meditations T No; 
 let us be more firm in our resolutions ; we have not 
 retired but in order to lament our sins, and to gain 
 heaven ; let us then resign ourselves to God with all 
 our heart. 
 
 I know every thing in the beginning is difficult, 
 but it is glorious to undertake the beginning of a 
 great action; and that glory increases proportionably 
 as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought 
 upon this account to surmount bravely all obstacles 
 which might hinder us in the practice of christian 
 virtue. In a monastery men are proved as gold in the 
 furnace. No one can continue long there, unless he 
 bear worthily the yoke of our Lord. 
 
 Attempt to break those shameful chains which bind 
 you to the flesh, and if by the assistance of grace 
 you are so happy as to accomplish this, 1 entreat you 
 to think of me in your prayers. Endeavour with all 
 your strength to be the pattern of a perfect Christian ; 
 it is difficult, I confess, but not impossible ; and I 
 expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable 
 disposition. If your first endeavours prove weak, 
 give not yourself up to despair ; that would be cow- 
 ardice ; besides I would have you informed, that you 
 must necessarily take great pains, because you strive 
 to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish raging fire, 
 and to reduce to subjection your dearest affections : you 
 must fight against your own desires, be not, therefore, 
 pressed down with the weight of your corrupt nature. 
 You have to do with a cunning adversary, who will 
 use all means to seduce you ; be always upon your 
 guard. While we li\^ we are exposed to temptations ; 
 
1 06 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 this made a great saint say, that " the whole life of 
 man was a temptation the devil, who never sleeps, 
 walks continually around us, in order to surprise us 
 on some unguarded side, and enters into our soul to 
 destroy it. 
 
 However perfect any one may be, yet he may fall 
 into temptations, and, perhaps, into such as may be 
 useful. Nor is it wonderful that man should never 
 be exempt from them, because he hath always in him- 
 self their source, concupiscence ; scarce are we deliver- 
 ed from one temptation but another attacks us. Such 
 is the lot of the posterity of Adam, that they should 
 always have something to suffer, because they have 
 forfeited their primitive happiness. We vainly flatter 
 ourselves that we shall conquer temptations by fly- 
 ing ; if we join not patience ?^nd humility, we shall 
 torment ourselves to no purpose. We shall more 
 certainly compass our end by imploring God's assis- 
 tance, than by using any means drawn from our- 
 selves. 
 
 Be constant, Eloisa ! trust in God, and you will 
 fall into few temptations ; whenever they shall come, 
 stifle them in their birth ; let them not take root in 
 your heart. Apply remedies to a disease, said an 
 ancient, in its beginning, for when it hath gained 
 strength medicine will be unavailable ; temptations 
 have their degrees, they are at first mere thoughts, 
 and do not appear dangerous ; the imagination re- 
 ceives them without any fears ; a pleasure is formed 
 out of ihem, we pause upon it, and at last we yield 
 to it. 
 
 Do you now, Eloisa, applaud my design of making 
 you walk in the steps of the saints ? Do my words 
 give you any relish for penitence ? Have you not 
 remorse for your wanderings, and do you not wish 
 you could, like Magdalen, wash our Saviour's feet 
 with yotir tears ? If you Iiave not yet these ardent 
 emotions, pray that he would inspire them. I shall 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 107 
 
 never ceasre to recommend you in my prayers, and 
 always beseech him to assist you in your desire of 
 dying bolily. You have quitted the world, and what 
 object was worthy to detain you there ? Lift up your 
 eyes alwaj'S to him to whom you have consecrated the 
 rest of your days. Life upon this earth is misery. 
 The very necessities to which our body is subject here, 
 are matter of affliction, to a saint. " Lord," said the 
 royal prophet, " deliver me from my necessities!" 
 They are wretched who do not know themselves for 
 such ; and yet they are more wretched who know 
 their misery, and do not hate the corruption of the age. 
 What fools are men to engage themselves to earthly 
 things ! They will be undeceived one day, and will 
 know but too late how much they have been to blame 
 in loving such false good. Persons truly pious do 
 not thus mistake, they are disengaged from all sensual 
 pleasures, and raise their desires to heaven. Begin, 
 Eloisa ; put your designs in execution without delay ; 
 you have yet time enough to work out your salvation. 
 Love Christ, and despise yourself for his sake. He 
 would possess your heart, and be the sole object of 
 your sighs and tears ; seek for no comfort but in him. 
 If you do not free yourself from me, you will fall with 
 me ; but if you quit me, and give up yourself to him, 
 you will be stedfast and immoveable. If you force 
 the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into distress ; 
 but if you be ever faithful to him, you will be always 
 in joy. Magdalen wept, as thinking the Lord had 
 forsaken her. But Martha said, " See, the Lord 
 calls you.'* Be diligent in your duty, and obey faith- 
 fully the motions of his grace, and Jesus will remain 
 always with you. 
 
 Attend, Eloisa, to some instructions I have to give 
 you. You are at the head of a society, and you know 
 there is this difference between those who lead a pri- 
 vate life, and such as are charged with the conduct of 
 others ; that the first need only labour for their own 
 sanctification, and in acquainting themselves of their 
 
108 
 
 ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 duties are not obliged to practise all the virtues in 
 such an apparent manner ; whereas they who have the 
 conduct of others intrusted to them, ought by their 
 example to engage them to do all the good they are 
 capable of in their condition. I beseech you to at- 
 tend to this truth, and so to follow it, as that your 
 whole life may be a perfect model of that of a reli- 
 gious recluse. 
 
 God, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made 
 all the means of it easy to us. In the Old Testament 
 he hath written in the tables of the law what he re- 
 quires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seek- 
 ing after his will. In the New Testament he hath 
 written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent 
 that it might be always present with us ; and, knowing 
 the weakness and incapacity of our nature, he hath 
 given us grace to perform his will ; and, as if this 
 were not enough, he hath at all times, in all states ot 
 the church, raised up men, who by their exemplary 
 life might excite others to their duty. To elTect this, 
 he hath chosen persons of every age, Sex, and condi- 
 tion. Strive now to unite in yourself all those virtues 
 which have been scattered in these different states. 
 Have the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, 
 the zeal of pastors and bishops, and the constancy 
 of martyrs. Be exact, in the course of your whole 
 life, to fulfil the duties of a holy and enlightened su- 
 perior, and then truth, which is commonly consider- 
 ed as terrible, will appear agreeable to you. 
 
 The death of his saints,^* says the prophet, " is 
 precious in the sight of the Lord.'' Nor is it diffi- 
 cult to comprehend why their death should have this 
 advantage over that of sinners. I have remarked three 
 things which might have given the prophet an occa- 
 sion of speaking thus. First, their resignation to the 
 will of God. Secondly, the continuation of their 
 good works. And lastly, the triumph they gain over 
 the devil. 
 
 A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 109 
 
 the will of God, yields to death without reluctance. 
 He waits with joy, says St. Gregory, for the judge 
 who is to reward him ; he fears not to quit this mise- 
 rable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy 
 one. it is not so with the sinner, sa^s the same father ; 
 he fears, and with reason ; he trembles at the ap- 
 proach of the least sickness; death is terrible to him, 
 because he cannot bear the presence of an offended 
 judge, and having so often abused the grace of God. he 
 sees no way to avoid the punishment due to his sins. 
 
 The saints have besides this advantage over sinners, 
 that having made works of piety familiar to them 
 during their life, they exercise them without trouble : 
 and having gained new strength against the devil 
 every time they overcame him, they will find them- 
 selves in a condition at the hour of death to obtain 
 that victory over him, on which depends all eternity, 
 and the blessed union of their souls with their 
 Creator. 
 
 I hope, Eloisa, that after having deplored the irre- 
 gularities of your past life, you will die (as the pro- 
 phet prayed) the death of the righteous. Ah! how 
 few are there who make their end after this manner ? 
 And why ? It is because there are so few who love 
 the cross of Christ. Every one would be saved, but 
 few will use those means which religion prescribes. 
 And yet we can be saved by nothing but the cross, 
 why then do we refuse to bear it ? Hath not our Sa- 
 viour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end 
 that we might also bear it, and desire to die also ? 
 All the saints have been afiiicted, and our Saviour 
 himself did not pass one hour of his life without some 
 sorrow. Hope not, therefore, to be exempt from suf- 
 ferings. The cross, Eloisa, is always at hand, but 
 take care that you do not bear it with regret, for by 
 so doing you will make it more heavy, and you mil 
 be oppressed by it unprofitably. On the contrary, if 
 ; ou bear It with affection and courage, all your suf- 
 
110 
 
 ferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby 
 you will find comfort in God. Hear our Saviour, who 
 says, My child, renounce yourself, take up your 
 cross and follow me/' Oh, Eloisa ! do you doubt ? 
 Is not your soul ravished at so saving a command ? 
 Are you deaf to his voice? Are you insensible to 
 words so full of kindness ? Beware, Eloisa, of refu- 
 sing a husband who demands you, and is more to be 
 feared, if you slight his affection, than any profane 
 lover. Provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, 
 he will turn his love into anger, and make you feel 
 , , ^ his vengeance. How will you sustain his presence, 
 V . when you shall stand before his tribunal? He will re- 
 proach you for having despised his grace ; he will 
 represent to you his sufferings for you. What answer 
 can you make ? He will then be implacable. He will 
 say to you, Go, proud creature, dwell in everlasting 
 flames ; I separated you from the world to purify you 
 in solitude, and you did not second my design. I en- 
 deavoured to save you, and you took pains to destroy 
 yourself: go, wretch, and take the portion of the re- 
 probates. 
 
 Oh, Eloisa ! prevent these terrible words, and 
 avoid by a holy course the punishment prepared for 
 sinners. I dare not give you a description of those 
 dreadful torments which are the consequences of a 
 life of guilt. I am filled with horror when they ofFef 
 themselves to my imagination. And yet, Eloisa, I 
 can conceive nothing which can reach the tortures^ 
 of the damned: the fire which we see upon earth 
 is but the shadow of that which butlis them ; and 
 without enumerating their endless pains, the loss of 
 God which they feel increases all their torments. 
 Can any one sin who is persuaded of this ? My God ! 
 can we dare to offend thee ? Though the riches of thy 
 mercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of 
 being thrown into such an abyss of misery should 
 
ABELARD TO ELOISA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 restrain us from doing any thing which might displease 
 
 thee ! 
 
 I question not, Eloisa, but you will hereafter apply 
 yourself in good earnest to the business of your sal- 
 vation. This ought to be your whole concern. Banish 
 me, therefore, for ever from your heart ; 'tis the best 
 advice I can give you ; for the remembrance of a per- 
 son we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, 
 whatever advances we have made in the ways of vir- 
 tue. Vv hen you have extirpated your unhappy incli- 
 nation toYv ards me, the practice of every virtue will 
 become easy ; and when at last your life is conform- 
 able to that of Christ, death will be desirable to you. 
 Your soul will joyfully leave this body, and direct 
 its flight to heaven. Then you will appear with confi- 
 dence before your Saviour : you will not read charac- 
 ters of your- reprobation written in the book of life ; 
 but you will hear your Saviour say, " Come, partake 
 of my glory, and enjoy the eternal reward I have ap- 
 pointed for those virtues you have practised. 
 
 Farewel, Eloisa ! This is the last advice of your 
 dear Abelard ; this last time, let me persuade you to 
 follow the holy rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant 
 that your heart, once so sensible of my love, may now 
 yield to be directed by my zeal ! May the idea of your 
 loving Abelard, always present to your mind, be now 
 changed into the image of Abelard, truly penitent ! 
 and may you shed as many tears for your salvation 
 as you have done during the course of our misfor- 
 tunes ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
juately lyuhlished 
 
 By T. HUGHES, 
 
 35, LUDGATE STREET. 
 
 ABERCROMBIE'S and MAWE'B Gardener's 
 Calendar, a new edition enlarged, sheep 18mo. sewed 
 and cut. Is. 
 
 The CONJUROR'S REPOSITORY, or IN 
 OLEBY'S ART of LEGERDEMAIN, royal 18mo. 
 boards, 2s. 6d. 
 
 Now publishing, 
 
 The BRITISH CLASSIC AUTHORS, in a regu- 
 lav and uniform series, comprising the most ap- 
 proved pieces of those standard writers only, whose 
 works are stamped with universal approbation, at 
 home and abroad, without the least curtailment or 
 abridgment whatever ; yet by the adoption of the 
 more modern and delightful improvements, in the sub- 
 lime art of printing, in its varied stages, and adapting 
 these to the particular composition of each author (in 
 prose and verse) the price of any given work publish- 
 ed in this new series will be reduced to nearly one 
 half the usual charge hitherto laid upon the old con- 
 tracted editions. 
 
 In fine, " cheapness is the order of the day,'' and 
 this combined with utility, compactness, and porta- 
 bility, must strongly recommend " The Portable 
 Library of Classic Authors," to all Heads of Fa- 
 milies making presents to the rising generation, • 
 
 Who teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 
Latehj published by T. Hughes^ 
 
 LETTERS ot ABELARD and ELOISA; with a 
 particular Account of their Lives, Amours, and Mis- 
 fortunes, embeilished with an elegant Engraving, 
 royal 18mo. 2s. extra boards. 
 
 ELIZABETH ; or the Exiles of Siberia, a Talc, 
 founded upon facts : from the French of Madame 
 Cottin, on fine paper, with beautiful engraving, royal 
 i8mo. 2s. extra boards. 
 
 The ARTIST'S ASSISTx\NT, or Painters Vade 
 Mecum : comprising the Theory and Practice of Leo- 
 nardi da Vinci, Le Brun, De Lairesse, &c. ; being a 
 Compilation from the Works of those great Masters ; 
 embracing every thing that is necessary for the As- 
 sistance 01 the Artist, —and calculated at the same 
 time to aid the progressive Studies of the Pupil in 
 History, Portrait, and Landscape Painting, in which 
 the Style of the best Masters is critically examined, 
 the Beauties and Defects of some of the chief Pro- 
 ductions of the Pencil fairly and candidly consi- 
 dered, and the various modes of Painting in Oil, 
 Water-Colour, and Crayon, simply exemplified, by 
 Subjects illustrative of Observations on the peculiar 
 Excellencies of the Art ; also, Instruction in mixing 
 of Colours, neatly done up in 12mo. price 2s. with 
 engravings. 
 
 The STUDENT'S POCKET DICTIONARY of 
 Literary and Scientific Words ; containing all that is 
 most useful in Johnson, Walker, Sheridan, Ash, 
 &c. ; with all the new Terms lately adopted in the 
 English Language, rejecting those which are common 
 and unimportant ; being a valuable and interesting 
 pocket volume for Students, Young Collegians, Ar- 
 tists, Gentlemen of the Faculty, and every one who 
 wishes to become perfect in the more refined and 
 abstruse terms of the English Language, bound and 
 lettered, 4s. 6d. 
 
 The STRANGER'S GUIDE, or New Ambulator; 
 describing London and its Environs for twenty-five 
 Miles round, with a New Map, wherein not only 
 
35, Luiigate Street, 
 
 London, but every Village, Hamlet, Palace, Noble- 
 man and Gentleman's Seat, Churches, Ruins, Obe- 
 lisks, Abbeys, Docks, Canals, Parks, &c. are fully 
 described. This is a pleasing and interesting Volume, 
 full of useful information to them that make short 
 Excursions, or to them that cannot ; in 18mo. boards, 
 price 4s. 
 
 The STEAM -BOAT COMPANION, or the 
 River Thames, South-End, Isle of Sheppy, Margate, 
 Ramsgate, Broad-stairs, and the Isle of Thanet 
 Guide ; in w^hich is an Account of all th:- Villages 
 in the two islands ; interspersed with many Biogra- 
 phical Incidents and Topographical Remarks, with 
 a concise description of every Island, Fort, Village, 
 Dock, Gentleman's Seat, ail Churches, Ruins, re 
 markable Places, &c. on each side of our River 
 Thames, from the C!ustom-house to Margate, and the 
 Isle of Thanet. The whole calculated to amuse and 
 impress on the memoiy such historical facts and 
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 Illustrated with a comprehensive Map, where every 
 object is described that can be discerned from the 
 deck of a vessel. Pocket size, 18mo. boards, 4s. 
 
 STEAM-BOAT COMPANION to Richmond, 
 from London Bridge on to Windsor, with a Map, on 
 the same plan as the Margate ditto, bound in red, 3s. 
 
 Ff)UR-FOOTED ANIM ALS, or New Anecdotes 
 of Dogs, wherein the general Character of Dogs are ^ 
 pourtrayed by many remarkable actions, with many 
 tributes to their memory in prose and verse, taken 
 from incidents in real life, by J. Taylor, author of 
 Canine Gratitude, royal 18mo. extra boards, 2s. 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL RECREATIONS, or Win- 
 ter Amusements ; being a Collection of entertaining 
 and astonishing Experiments in Mechanics, Arith- 
 metic, Optics, Hydrostatics, Hydraulics, Pneuma- 
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 making Fire-works ; together with the Air-pump, 
 Magic-lantern, Camera Obscura, &c. ; v>^ith a variety 
 
Lately published by T. Hughes, 
 
 of. enlertfctining Tricks with Cards. The whole so 
 simpliiied and clearly elucidated as to render it per- 
 fectly conspicuous to the meanest capacity, 18mo. 
 boards, 2s. 6d. 
 
 DOMESTIC AMUSEMENTS, in 300 new and 
 pleasing Philosophical Experiments ;' containing 
 the Results of various Experiments in Practical 
 Science and the Useful Arts ; being a Sequel Vo- 
 lume to the above, which is more Juvenile, 18mo. 
 boards, 8s. 
 
 MISS OWENSON'S (now Lady Morgan) first 
 and best Novel, the NOVICE of St. DOMINIC. 
 A new edition, being the third, in four thick vols. 
 12mo. boards, £1. Is. 
 
 ADVENTURES of ROBINSON CRUSOE,, a 
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 Ditto, printed on fine paper, embellished with six 
 fine engravings, extra boards, 4s. 
 
 ADVENTURES of BARON MUNCHAUSEN, 
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 2s. 6d. 
 
 BOB SHORT'S RULES for WHIST and CRIB- 
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 for Betting, 32mo. sewed, with an engraving, 6d. 
 
 HO YLE'S GAMES ; being a Companion to the 
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 sewed. Is. 
 
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 COOKiiL'S (Capt.) VOYAGES, abridged judici- 
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 BROWNS BIBLE, ( Raftald's) royal 4to. in bds. 
 £6. 6s. 
 
S5, ijua^ate Street, 
 
 COOKERIT. 
 
 CARTER'S, in thick 18mo. sewed, a new edition, 
 revised, &c. Is. 6d. 
 
 GLASSE'S, 12mo. in boards, a new edition, with 
 plates, greatly improved, sewed, Is; 
 
 GAY'S FABLES, a beautiful edition in 32mo. 
 printed on fine paper and hot-pressed, embellished 
 with 67 wood engravings by Branston* in his best 
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 X-EiTTliR-WRZTliZlS. 
 
 COOKE'S UNIVERSAL, a new edition, rewrit- 
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 2s. 6d. 
 
 The GENERAL LONDON ditto, in four parts, 
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 The LADY'S ditto, 6d. 
 
 NEW WEEK'S PREPARATION, both parts, a 
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 OVID'S ART of LOVE, 18mo, printed on fine 
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 BETTES WORTH'S INTEREST TABL.ES, on 
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 cent, per ann, 18 mo, boTiiid, 2s. 
 
■ I 
 
 0O2.1 
 
1 a bandsomc wlre- 
 
 \IJTKORS, 
 
 ^5 V parLci 
 Yerae) the 
 
 hithe^i 
 
 In i',: 
 corabir 
 
 v;t?nr ■ ' ! 
 
 proved pieces of those ^i^mdard 
 are stamped M-ij"h ''miersal np- 
 ' ■'hout the l<Nist curtail- 
 1 by l)»p ad- -^'Oid of the 
 ' ' ' '■ ^ - suhiime 
 
 ' - 4 ' these to 
 nixr (iii pnvsp, and 
 jrfhed IT, this naiii 
 aearly one half the < ?!,;rge 
 • contracted editions, 
 the order of the da-," and Lhis 
 I y, compactness, and portability, nuist 
 '^The Portable Library of Classjo 
 Heads of Famiiies making presents i ? 
 - - adon,— 
 
 Wlio .each the young idea bow to shoot. 
 
 . the Traveller, who uld r^lax from thv t ; ; of 
 jourr>e>ing,— to the Voyager who would whi* • r v.' y 
 ra^diumQf transatlHTi^Jr 1 j i !• ssness, and, in »•> 'I 
 
 who WOTll- 
 
 ■'' '•■ ' ■ ^ ' ciT^a^ing exp;i^' V- '/^r 
 
 /^iiwti by mUUi nud fe>:.sthify, laese voliimes offer the cheap 
 and ready me- 3 of such ir^pro^-ment and amnsement at 
 the sarne time ; so 
 
 Let F'^^rt^, that all hunt aft/i ... ..^j, 
 1. regigtared upon our drazK}. ..- nfyj, 
 And f.lien grace us in the disgr(n:e of death.