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It is very ſurpriſing that the Letters of Abe- lard-and Heloiſe have not ſooner appeared in Engliſh, fince it is generally allowed by all who have ſeen them in other languages, that they are written with the greateſt paſſion of any in this kind which are extant. And it is certain, that the Letters from a Wun to a Ca- valier *) which have ſo long been known and admired among us, are in all reſpects inferior to them. Whatever thoſe were, theſe are known to be genuine pieces, occaſioned by an *) Sold by f. Lowndes in fleet-ſtreet, 3, 2 IV P R E F A C E . amour which had very extraordinary conſe- quences, and made a great noiſe at the time when it happened, being between two of the moſt diſtinguiſhed perſons of that age. Theſe letters therefore being truly written by the perſons themſelves, whoſe names they bear, and who were both remarkable for their genius and learning, as well as by a moſt ex- travagant paſſion for each other, are every where full of ſentiments of the heart, (which are not to be imitated in a feigned ſtory) and touches of nature much more moving than any which could flow from the pen of a writer of novels, or enter into the imagination of any who had not felt the like emotions and diſ- treſſes. They were originally written in Latin, and are extant in a collection of the works of Abe- lard, printed at Paris in the year 1616. With what elegance and beauty of ſtyle they were written in that language, will ſufficiently ap- pear to the learned reader, even by thoſe few citations which are ſet at the bottom of the page in ſome places of the following hiſtory. But the book here mentioned conſiſting chiefly P R E F A C E . V of ſchool divinity, and of the learning of thoſe times, and therefore being rarely to be met with but in public libraries , and in the hands of ſome learned men, the Letters of Abe- lard and Heloiſe are much more known by a tranſlation, or rather paraphraſe of them in French, firſt publiſhed at the Hague in 1693. and which afterwards received ſeveral other complete editions. This tranſlation is much ap- plauded, but who was the author of it is not certainly known. Monſieur Bayle ſays, he had been informed it was done by a woman; and perhaps he thought no one befides could have entered ſo thoroughly into the paſſion and ten- derneſs of ſuch writings, for which that ſex ſeems to have a more natural diſpoſition than the other. This may be judged by the letters themſelves, among which thoſe of Heloiſe are the moſt tender and moving, and the maſter ſeems in this particular to have been excelled by the ſcholar. In ſome of the later editions in French, there has been prefixed to the letters an hi- ſtorical account of Abelard and Heloiſe; this is chiefly extracted from the preface of the editor of Abelar's works in latin, and from the critical VI P R B F A C E . . dictionary of monſieur Bayle"), who has put together, under ſeveral articles, all the parti- culars he was able to collect concerning theſe two famous perſons : And though the firſt letter of Abelard to Philintus, in which he relates his own ſtory, may ſeem to have rendered this account in part unneceſſary ; yet the reader will not be diſpleaſed to ſee the thread of the relation entire, and continued to the death of the perſons whoſe misfortunes had made their lives ſo very remarkable. It is indeed impoſſible to be unmoved at the ſurpriſing and multiplied afflictions and perſe- cutions which befel a man of Abelard's fine ge- nius, when we ſee them ſo feelingly deſcribed by his own hand. Many of theſe were owing to the malice of ſuch as were his enemies on the account of his ſuperior learning and merit; yet the great calamities of his life took their riſe from his unhappy indulgence of a criminal paſ- fion, and giving himſelf a looſe to unwarran- table pleaſures. After this he was perpetually *) Vid. articles Abelard, Heloiſe, Foulques, and Paraclete. P R E F.A. c E. VII involved in forrow and diſtreſs . and in vain ſought for eaſe and quiet in a monaſtic life. The letters between him and his beloved He- loiſe were not written till long after their mar- riage and ſeparation, und when each of them was dedicated to a life of religion. Accordingly we find in them ſurpriſing mixtures of devotion and tenderneſs, of pénitence, and remaining frailty, and a lively picture of human nature in its contrarieties of paſſion and reaſon, its infir- mities and its ſufferings. * c o Nºt E N T S. * , . The Hiſtory of Abelard and Heloite, II. HII. IV. VI. II. III. IV VI Page. sº º, } * I, E. T. T. E. R. S. Abelard to Philintus. . . . . . . . . . . Heloiſe to Abelard. . . . . . . . . . . . Abelard to Heloiſe. . . . . . . . . . . . Heloiſe to Abelard. . . . . . . . . . . . Heloiſe to Abelard. . . . . . . . . . . . Abelard to Heloiſe. . . . . . . . . . . . P o E M s. Heloiſe to Abelard, by Mr. Pope. . . Abelard to Heloiſe, by Mrs. Madan. Abelard to Heloiſe, by Mr. Caw- thorne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abelard to Heloiſe, by an unknown hand. ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abelard to Eloiſa, by Mr. Samuel Birch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abelard to Eloiſa, by Mr. Seymour. —m-- ty 95 124 150 168 185 209 215 223 237 242 £57 - # * 3 * & * * * * * § 2- { g * * R * } r= r * X f * * *. º * y ** º * + ‘. * , * # *g & # * & $ s' º ‘. . * * * * * * t{ i - . . ; ; .# 4-' ' , f : * * T.H.E * * . . . . * * , {#9 s ... -; , … £, a . . . . . * * * ſ y * *: * : . . . . . " : " . .# *; * º H I S. T. O. R. Y * 2 * { t * sº f ! , ; * ; : - *- * * # * t : O F * } . . . . * * * • * * & # } , ,” " * *. * & “ . . . . at " ' ' 'o fuo , , , , * ; : , , , , , , ~rt-ºrrºr. $ * ; : . . * • * {, } • * { * * * * PET ER ABEL ARD was born in the village of Palais, in Britany. He lived in the twelfth century, in the reigns of Lewis the Groſs, and Lewis the Yôāng; His father's Hamé was 'Beranger, a Geiſtlemait' of a "confiderable and wealthy fa- mily'He' took care to give his children a liberal and ºpious education ; eſpecially his eldeſt ſon Peter,' ºn whom he endeavoured to beſtow all poſſibré"improvements, becauſe there appeared in him; a h extraordinary vivacity of wit, joined with ſweetneſs of temper, and all imaginable preſages 'of a 'great man, ' ' ' *3 A º The HISTORY of * , * 3: ... ? * *** * * * * * * ******.*, *, *, r** ... .º. c. * * * * * * * * * * When he had made ſome Advancement in learn- ing, he grew ſo fond of his books, that, left af. fairs of the world might interrupt his proficiency in them, he quitted his birthright to his younger , brother, and applied himſelf entirely to the fiudies of Philoſophy and Divinity. * . Of all the ſciences to which he applied himſelf, that which pleaſed him moſt, and in which he made the greateſt progreſs, was Logie. He had a very ſubtle wit, and waśńceſſantly whetting it by diſputes, out of a reſtleſs ambition to be a maſter of his weapons: So that in a ſhort time he gained the reputation of the greateſt philoſopher of his age; and has always been eſteemed the founder of what we call the Learning of , the Schoolmen. t * { He finiſhed his fludies, 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 favourite ſcholar; but this did not laſt long. The Profeſſor was ſo hard put to it, to anſwer the ſubtle objections of his new ſcholar, that he grew uneaſy with him. The ſchool ſoon run into parties. The ſenior ſcholars, tranſported with envy againſt ABELARD. And HELOISE. 3. Abelard, ſeconded their maſter's reſentment. All this ſerved only to increaſe the young man's pre- ſumption, 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 yeagues from Paris, where the French Court refided at that time. Cham- peaux 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 marvellous progreſs, and eclipſed that of Cham- peaux. Theſe ſucceſſes ſwelled Abelard ſo much, that he removed his ſchool te Corbeil, in order to engage his enemy the eloſer in more frequent diſputations. But his exceſſive application of ſtudy brought upon him a long and dangerous fickneſs, which conſtrained him to return to his native air. After he had ſpent two years in his dwn coun- try, he made a ſecond adventure to Paris, where he found that his old antagoniſt Champeaux had refigued his chair, to another, ahd was retired into a 'convent of Canons Regular, among, whom he continued his lectures, Abelard attacked him with A 2. 4. " THE HISTORY of r * ſuch fury, that he quickly forced him to renounce his tenets. Whereupon the poor monk became ſo deſpicable, and his antagoniſt in ſuch great effeem, that no body went to the lectures of Champeaux, and the very man who ſucceeded him in his pro- feſſorſhip, lified under Abelard, aud 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; another Profeſſor was put into his place who had thought it his duty to ſubmit to Abelard; in ſhort, ſo many enemies were raiſed againſt him, that he was forced to retreat from Paris to Melun, and there revive his Logic lec- tures. 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 errected a new ſchool, like a kind of battery againſ 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, ** ABELARD AND HELOISE. 5 inſtead of relieving his friend, cauſed all his ſcho- lars to deſert him. At which the poor Philoſopher was ſo mortified, that he followed the example, of his patron Champeaux, and turned monk too. The diſpute now lay wholly between Abelard and Champeaux, who renewed it with great warmth on both fides : but the Senior had not the beſt on’t. While it was depending, Abelard was obliged to viſit his father and mother, who, ac- cording 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 ſalvation. Having aſſiſted at the admiſſion of his parents into their reſpective monaſteries, and received their bleſſing, he returned to Paris, where during his abſence, his rival had been promoted to the Biſhop- ric 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 Anſelm read Divinity-lectures with good reputa- tion. But Abelard was ſo little ſatisfied with the 6 The HISTORY or old man's abilities, who, as he ſays, had a very xnean genius, and a great fluency of words without ſenſe, that he took a reſolution for the future, to hear no other maſter than the Holy Scriptures. A good reſolution If a man take the Spirit of God for his guide, and be more concerned to diffin- guiſh truth from falſehood, than to confirm him- ſelf in thoſe principles into which his own fancy or complexioms or the prejudices of his birth and * ABELARD AND HELOISE. z7 from the ſtudy of Divinity and Philoſophy. Ob- ſerve the conduct of the wiſe pagans in this point, who preferred a ſingle life before marriage, and be aſhamed that you oannot come up to them. Be more careful to maintain the character and digni- ty of a philoſopher. Do not you know that there is no action of life which draws after it ſo ſure and long a repentance, and to ſo little purpoſe? You fancy to yourſelf the enjoyments you ſhall have in being bound to me by a bond which no- thing but death can break. But know, there is no ſuch thing as ſweet chains; and there is a thou- ſand times more glory, honour, and pleaſure in keeping firm to a union which love alone has eſtabliſhed, which is ſupported by mutual eſteem and merit, and which owes its continuance to no- thing but the ſatisfaction of ſeeing each other free. Shall the laws and cuſtoms which the groſs and carnal world has invented, hold us together more ſurely than the bonds of mutual affection? Take my word for it, you will ſee me too often, when you ſee ine every day; you will have no value for my lowe mor favours, when they are due to you, and coſt you no care. Pelhaps you do not think of all this at preſent; but you will think of nothing elſe when it will be too late I do not take notice what the world will ſay, to ſee a wº C 2. 23 THE HISTORY OF \ man in your circumſtances get him a wife, and ſo throw away your reputation, your fortúne, and your quiet. In ſhort, continued ſhe , the quality of miſtreſs is a hundred times more pleaſing to me, than that of wife. Cuſtom indeed has given a dignity to this latter name, and we are impoſed upon by it; but heaven is my wittneſs, I had rather be Abelard's miſtreſs, than lawful wife to the Emperor of the whole world. I am very ſure I ſhall always prefer your advantage and ſatisfac- tion, before my own honour, and all the reputa- ...tion, wealth, and enjoyments, which the moſt ſplendid marriage could bring me. Thus Heloiſe argued, and added a great many more reaſons, which I forbear to relate, left I ſhould tire my reader. It is enough for him to know, that they are chiefly grounded upon her preference of love to marriage, and liberty to neceſſity. We might therefore ſuppoſe that Heloiſe was afraid leff marriage ſhould prove the tomb of love. The Count de Buſſi, who paſſes for the tranſlator of ſome of her letters, makes this to be her mean- ing, though cloathed in delicate language. But if we examine thoſe which ſhe writ to Abelard after their ſeparation, and the expreſſions ſhe uſes to put him in mind, that he was indebted for the ABELARD AND HELOISE. 29 paſſion ſhe had for him to nothing but love itſelf, we muſt allow that ſhe had more refined notions, and that never woman was ſo difintereſted. She loved Abelard, it is true; but ſhe declared, it was not his ſex that ſhe moſt valued in him. Some authors *) are of opinion, that it was not an exceſs of love which made Abelard preſs He- loiſe to marriage, but only to quiet his conſcience: But how can any one tell his reaſons for marriage, better than he himſelf? Others ſay *), that if He- loiſe did really oppoſe Abelard's deſign of marrying her ſo earneſtly, it was not becauſe ſhe thought better of concubinage than a married life; but be- cauſe her affection and reſpect for her lover, lead- ing her to ſeek his honour and advantage in all things, ſhe was afraid that by marrying him, ſhe ſhould ſtand between him and a biſhopric, which ſhe thought his wit and learning well deſerved. But there is no ſuch thing in her letters, nor in the long account which Abelard has left us of the arguments which his miſtreſs uſed to diſſuade him from marriage. Theſe are the faults of many au- thors, who put ſuch words in the mouths of per- *) AMoreri Dict. **) Fran, d'Amboiſe, ** * 30 - Tire HISTORY or ſons, as are moſt conformable to their own ideas. It is often more advantageous that a woman ſhould leave her lover free for church-dignities, than render him incapable of them by marriage. But is it juſt therefore to ſuppoſe, that Heloiſe had any ſuch motives? There is indeed a known ſtory of a man that was poſſeſſed of a prebend, and quitted it for a wife. The day after the wedding, he ſaid to his bride, My Dear, confider how ‘paſſionately I loved you, fince I, loſt my preferment to marry you. You have dome a very fooliſh thing, ſaid ſhe you might have kept that, and have had me notwithſtanding. But to return to our lovers. A modern author, who well underſtood human Nature, has affirmed; *) That women by the favours they grant to mea grow the fonder of them; but on the contrary, the men grow more indifferent. This is not always true. Abélard was not the leſs enamoured with Heloiſe, after ſhe had given him the utmoſt proofs of her love; and their familiarity was ſo far from having abated his flame, that it ſeems all the elo- quence of Heloiſe could not perſuade Abelard that f he wronged himſelf in thinking to marry her. He *) M. de la Bruyere, | | ABELARD AND HELOISE, 31 admired the wit, the paſſion, and the ingenuity. of his miſtreſs; but in theſe things he did not come ſhort of her : He knew ſo well how to repreſent to her the neceſſity of marriage, the diſcourſe which he had about it with Fulbert, his rage if they declined it, and how dangerous it might be to both of them, that at laſt ſhe conſented to do whatever he pleaſed, but ſtill with an inconceivable reluctance, which ſhewed that ſhe yielded for no other reaſon, but the fear of diſobliging him. 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 Heloiſe was fit to go abroad, Abelard carried her to Paris, where they were married 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. The news of it was already whiſpered about ; people ſoon be- gan to talk of it more openly, till at laſt they mentioned it to the married pair. Fulbert, who was leſs concerned to keep his word, than to cover the reproach of his family, took care to ſpread it abroad. But Heloiſe, who loved Abelard a thou- ſand times better than ſhe did herſelf, and always valued her dear Doctor's honour above her own, W 32 THE HISTORY or `` & denied it with the moſt ſolemn proteſtations, and did all ſhe could to make the world believe her. She conſtantly affirmed, that the reports of it were mere ſlanders; that Abelard never propoſed any ſuch thing; and if he had, ſhe would never have conſented to it. In ſhort, ſhe denied it ſo con- . ſtantly, and with ſuch earneſtneſs, that ſhe was generally believed. Many people thought, and poldly affirmed, that the Doctor's enemies had Ipread this ſtory on purpoſe to leſſen his charac- ter. This report came to Fulbert's ears, who, knowing that Heloiſe 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 barbarouſly. But Abelard, who loved her never the worſe for being his wife, could not ſee this many days with patience. He reſolved there- fore to order matters ſo as to deliver her from this ſtate of perſecution. To this purpoſe they conſult- ed together what courſe was to be taken; and agreed, that for ſetting them both free, her from the power and ill-humour of her uncle, and him from the perſecuting reports which went about of him, Heloiſe ſhould retire into a convent, where ſhe ſhould take the habit of a nun, all but the veil, that ſo ſhe might eaſily come out again, when they ſhould have a more favourable oppor- ABELARD ANI HELOISE. 33 tunity. This deſign was propoſed, approved, and executed, almoſt at the ſame time. By this means they effectually put a ſtop to all reports about their marriage. But the Canon was too dangerous a perſon to be admitted for 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 defire of revenge, which he purſued till he had executed it in the moſt cruel manner imaginable. This retreat of He- loiſe gave him the more ſenfible affection, becauſe ſhe was ſo far from covering her own reputation, that ſhe compleated his ſhame. He conſidered. it as Abelard's contrivance, and a freſh inſtance of his perfidious dealing towards him. And this re- flection put him upon ſtudying how to be revenged on them both at one ſtroke; which, aiming at the root of the miſchief, ſhould for ever diſable them from offending again. * * While this plot was in agitation, the lovers, who were not apt to trouble their heads about what might happen, ſpent their time in the moſt agreeable manner that could be. Abelard could not live long without a fight of his dear wife. He made her frequent viſits in the convent of Argen- teuil, to which ſhe was retired. The nuns of this 34. THE HISTORY of t abby enjoyed a very free kind of life; the grates and parlours were open enough. As for Heloiſe, ſhe had ſuch excellent qualifications, as made the good fifters very fond of her, and extremely pleaſed that they had ſuch an amiable companion. And as they were not ignorant what reports there were abroad, that ſhe was married to the famous Abe- lard, (though ſhe denied it to the laſt) the moſt dif- cerning among them, obſerving the frequent viſits of the Doctor, eafily imagined that ſhe had reaſons for keeping herſelf private, and ſo they took her caſe into confideration, and expreſſed a wonderful compaſſion for her misfortunes. Some of them, whom Heloiſe loved above the reſt, and in whom ſhe put great confidence, were not a little aiding and aſſiſting in the priyate inter- views which ſhe had with Abelard, and in giving him opportunities to enter the convent. The amo- rous Doctor made the beſt uſe of every thing : The habit which Heloiſe wore; the place where he was to ſee her ; the times and ſeaſons proper for his viſit : the ſtratagems which muſt be uſed to facilitate his entrance, and carry him undiſcovered to Heloiſe's chamber; the difficulties they met with ; the reaſons they had for not letting it be known who they were ; and the fear they were ...” i • ABELARD AND HELOISE. 35 in of being taken together : All this gave their amours an air of novelty, and added to their lawful embraces all the taſte of ſtolen delights. Theſe exceſſes had then their charms, but in the end had fatal conſequences : The furious Canon perfiſting in his deſign of being revenged on Abe- lard, notwithſtanding his marriage with his niece, found means to corrupt a domeſtic of the unfor- tunate Doctor, who gave admittance into his maſter's chamber to ſome aſſaſſins hired by Fulbert, who ſeized him in his ſleep, and cruelly deprived him of his manhood, but not his life. The ſervant and his accomplices fled for it; the wretched Abe- lard raiſed ſuch terrible outcries, that the people in the houſe and the neighbours being alarmed, haſtened to him, and gave him ſuch ſpeedy aſſi- ſtance, that he was ſoon out of a condition of fearing death. The news of this accident made a great noiſe, and its fingularity raiſed the curioſity of abundance of perſons, who came the next day, as in pro- ceſſion, to ſee , to lament, and comfort him. His ſcholars loudly bewailed his misfortune, and the W*0 in Cºl diſtinguiſhed themſelves upon this occaſion, * by extraordinary marks of tenderneſs. And it is ** 36 2 THIS HISTORY of probable, among the great number of ladies which pitied Abelard, there were ſome with whom he had been very intimate; For his Philoſophy did not make him ſcrupulous enough to eſteem every ſmall infidelity a crime, when it did not leſſen his conſtant love of Heloiſe. This action of Fulbert was too tragical to paſs unpuniſhed; the traiterous ſervant and one of the aſſaſſins were ſeized, and condemned to loſe their eyes, and to ſuffer what they had dome to Abe- Aard. But Fulbert denying he had any ſhare in the action, ſaved himſelf from the puniſhment, with the loſs only of his benefices. This ſentence did not ſatisfy Abelard; he made his complaint to no purpoſe to the Biſhop and Canons, and if he had made a remonſtrance at Rome, where he once had a defign of carrying the matter, it is probable he would have had no better ſucceſs. It requires too much money to gain a cauſe there. One Foulques, Prior of Deuil, an intimate friend of Abelard, wrote thus to him upon the occaſion of his mis- fortune, *) , If you appeal to the Pope, without bringing an immenſe ſum of money, it will be *) This Letter is extant in Latin in Abelard's Works. ABELARD AND HELOISE. 37 uſeleſs : nothing can ſatisfy the infinite avarice and luxury of the Romans. I queſtion if you have enough for ſuch an, undertaking; and if you attempt it, nothing will perhaps remain but the vexation of having flung away ſo much money. They who go to Rome without large ſums to ſquander away, will return juſt as they went, the expence of their journey only excepted.” But ſince I am upon Foul- ques's letter, which is too extraordinary to be paſſed over in filence, I ſhall give the reader ſome of its more remarkable paſſages, adding ſome reflec- tions which may make him amends for the trouble of a new digreſſion. This friend of Abelard lays before him many advantages which might be drawn from his mis- fortune. He tells him, his extraordinary talents, ſubtilty, eloquence, and learning, had drawn from all parts an incredible number of auditors, and ſo filled him with exceſſive vanity: He hints gently at another thing, which contributed not a little towards making him proud; namely, that the women continually followed him, and gloried in drawing him into their ſmares. This misfortune therefore would cure him of his pride, and free him from thoſe ſnares of women which had reduc- ed him even to indigence, though his profeſſion 38 & TNE HISTORY OF got him a large revenue; and now he would never impoveriſh himſelf by his galantries. Heloiſe herſelf in ſome paſſages of her letters ſays, that there was neither maid nor wife *), who in Abelard's abſence did not form deſires for him, and in his preſence was not inflamed with love : That Queens themſelves and Ladies of the firſt quality envied the pleaſures ſhe enjoyed with him. But we are not to take theſe words of Heloiſe in a ſtrict ſenſe; becauſe as ſhe loved Abelard to madneſs, ſo ſhe imagined every one elſe did. Be- fides that, report to be ſure had added to the truth. It is not at all probable that a man of Abe- lard's ſenſe, and who , according to all appea- rance, paſſionately loved his wife, ſhould not be able to contain himſelf in ſome bounds, but would ſquander away all his money upon miſtreſſes, even to the not reſerving what was ſufficient to provide for his neceſſities. Foulques owns that he ſpeaks only upon hear-ſay, and in that no doubt envy and jealouſy had their part. *). Quae conjugata, quae Pirgo. non concu- piſcebat abſentem, et non eacardeſcebat in prae- ſentern ? Quao Regina, vel praepotens Foemina Gaudiis meis non invidebat ve! Thalamis? ABELARD AND HELOISE. 39 Foulques tells him befides, that the amputation of a part of his body, of which he made ſuch ill uſe, would ſuppreſs at the ſame time a great many troubleſome paſſions, and procure him the liberty of reflecting on himſelf, inſtead of being hurried to and fro by his paſſions; his meditations would be no more interrupted by the emotions of the fleſh, and therefore he would be more ſucceſsful in diſcovering the ſecrets of Nature. He reckons it as a great advantage to him, that he would no more be the terror of huſbands, and might now lodge any where without being ſuſpected ; and forgets not to acquaint him, he might converſe with the fineſt women without any fear of thoſe temptations which ſometimes overpower even age itſelf, upon the fight of ſuch objects. And laſtly, he would have the happineſs of being exempt from the illu- fions of ſleep; wich exemption, according to him, is a peculiar bleſſing. It was with reaſon that Foulques reckons all theſe as advantages very extraordinary in the life of an Eccleſiaſtic; it is eaſy to oblerve that, to a perſon who devotes himſelf to continence, nothing can be more happy than to be inſenſible to beauty and love; for they who cannot maintain their chaſtity, but by continual combats, are very un- 46 The HISTORY or happy: The life of ſuch perſons is uneaſy, their ſtate always doubtful. They but too much feel the trouble of their warfare, and if they come off victorious in an engagement, it is often with a great many wounds. Even ſuch of them as in a . retired life are at the greateſt diſtance from temp- tations, by continually ſtruggling with their incli- nations, and ſetting barriers againſt the irruptions. of the fleſh, are in a miſerable condition. Their entrenchments are often forced ; and their con- ſcience filled with ſorrow and anxiety. What pro- greſs might one make in the ways of virtue, who is not obliged to fight an enemy for every foot of ground 2 Had Abelard's misfortune made him indeed ſuch as Foulques ſuppoſed, we ſhould ſee him in his letters expreſs his motives of comfort with a better grace. But though he mow was in a condition, not able to ſatisfy a paſſion by which he had ſuffered ſo much, yet was he not inſenſible at the fight of thoſe objects which once gave him ſo much pleaſure. This diſcourſe therefore of Foul- ques, far from comforting Abelard in his afflic- tion, ſeems capable of producing the contrary effect; and it is aſtoniſhing if Abelard did not take it ſo, and think he rather inſulted him, and conſe- quently reſent it. --- ** ABELARD AND HELOISE. 41 3. *- § As to dreams, St. Auſtin informs us of the ad- vantage Foulques tells his friend he had gained. S. Auſtin implores the grace of God to deliver him from this ſort of weakneſs, and ſays he gave conſent to thoſe things in his ſleep which he ſhould abominate awake , and laments exceedingly ſo great a remaining weakneſs. But let us go on with this charitable friend's letter; it hath too near a relation to this hiſtory, to leave any part of it untouched. Matrimonial functions (continues Foulques) and the cares of a family, will not now hinder your application to pleaſe God. And what a happineſs is it, not to be in a capacity of ſinning? And then he brings the examples of St. Origen, and other martyrs, who rejoice now in heaven, for their being upon earth in the ſame condition Abelard laments. As if the impoſſibility of committing a fin could ſecure any one from defiring to do it. But one of his greateſt motives of comfort, and one upon which he inſiſts the moſt is, becauſe his misfortune is irreparable. This is indeed true in fact, but the conſequence of his reaſoning is not ſo certain : ,, Afflict not yourſelf (ſays he) becauſe your misfortune is of ſuch a nature as is never to be repaired.”, …” D 42 *HE HISTORY OF It muſt be owned that the general topics of conſolation have two faces, and may therefore be confidered very differently, even ſo as to ſeem arguments for ſorrow. As for inſtance, one might argue very juſtly, that a mother ſhould not yield too much to grief upon the loſs of a ſon, becauſe her tears are unavailable, and though ſhe ſhould kill herſelf with ſorrow, ſhe can never by theſe means bring her ſon to life. Yet this very-thing, that all ſhe can do is uſeleſs, is the main occaſion of her grief; ſhe could bear it patiently, could ſhe any way retrieve her loſs. When Solom *) la- mented the death of his ſon, and ſome friend by way of comfort told him, his tears were inſignificant. ..That, ſaid he, is the very reaſon why I weep.” But Foulques argues much better afterwards; he ſays, Abelard did not ſuffer this in the com- miſien of any ill act, but ſleeping peaceably in his bed. That is, he was not caught in any open fact, ſuch as has coſt others the like loſs. This is, indeed, a much better topic than the former, though it muſt be allowed that Abelard had drawn this misfortune on himſelf by a crime as bad as adultery; yet the fault was over, and he mºm- *) Diog. Laert. ABELARD and HELOISE. 43 had made all the reparation which was in his power, and when they maimed him, he thought mo harm to any body, Abelard's friend makes uſe likewiſe of other conſolatory reaſons in his letter, and repreſents to him, after a very moving manner, the part which the Biſhop and Canon, and all the Eccleſiaſtics of Paris, took in his diſgrace, and the mourning there was among the inhabitants, and eſpecially the women, upon this occaſion. But in this article of conſolation how oomes it to paſs that he makes no mention of Heloiſe ? This ought not to appear ſtrange; ſhe was the moſt injured, and therefore queſtionleſs her ſorrows were ſufficiently known to him; and it would be no news to tell the huſ- band that his wife was in the utmoſt afliction for him. For as we obſerved before, though ſhe was in a convent, ſhe had not renounced her huſ- band; and thoſe frequent viſits he made her were met ſpent in reading homilies. But let us make an end of our reflections on Foulques's curious letter. Foulques, after adviſing Abelard not to think of carrying the matter before the Pope, by aſſuring him that it required too great expence to obtain any ſatisfaction at that court, concludes all with this laſt motive of conſolation, that the imagined D 2 44 THE HISTORY OF happineſs he had loſt was always accompanied with abundance of vexation; but if he perſevered in his ſpirit of refignation , he would without doubt at the laſt day obtain that juſtice he had now failed of. 'Tis great pity we have not Abelard's an- ſwer to this delicate letter, the matter then would look like one of Job’s dialogues with his friends. Abelard would generally have enough to reply, and Foulques would often be but a ſorry com- forter. However it is certain this leiter was of ſome weight with Abelard, for we find afterwards he never thought of making a voyage to Rome. Re- ſolved to bear his calamity patiently, he left to God the avenging of the cruel and ſhameful abuſe he had ſuffered. - But let us return to Heloiſe. 'Tis probable her friends of the convent of Argentueil concealed ſo heavy a misfortune from her for ſome time; but at laſt ſhe heard the fatal news : Though the rage and fury of her uncle threatened her long fince with ſome puniſhment, yet could ſhe never ſuſpect any thing of this nature. It will be ſaying too little to tell the reader ſhe felt all the ſhame and ſorrow that is poſſible. She only can expreſs thoſe violent emotions of her ſoul upon ſo ſevere an occaſion. ABELARD AND HELOISE. 45 In all probability this misfortune of Abelard would have been a thorough cure of her paſſion, if we might argue from like caſes : but there is no rule ſo general as not to admit of ſome excep- tions; and Heloiſe's love upon this ſevere trial proved like Queen Stratonice's, who was not leſs paſſionate for her favourite Combabus', when ſhe diſcovered his impotence, than ſhe had been before. Shame and ſorrow had no leſs ſeized Abelard than Heloiſe, nor dared he ever after appear in the world. So that he reſolved, immediately upon his cure, to baniſh himſelf from the fight of men, and hide himſelf in the darkneſs of monaſtic life; avoiding all converſation with any kind of per- ſons, excepting his dear Heloiſe, by whoſe com- pany he endeavoured to comfort himſelf; but ſhe at laſt reſolved to follow his example, and conti- nue for ever in the convent of Argentueil, where ſhe was. Abelard himſelf confeſſes that ſhame, rather than devotion, had made him take the habit of a monk; and that it was jealouſy, more than love, which engaged him to perſuade Heloiſe to be profeſſed before he had made his vow. The Letters which follow this hiſtory will inform us after what manner and with what reſolution they ſeparated. Heloiſe in the twenty-ſecond year of her 46 *The HISTORY or age generouſly quitted the world, and renounced all thoſe pleaſures ſhe might reaſonably have pro- miſed herſelf; to ſacrifice herſelf entirely to the fidelity and obedience ſhe owed her huſband, and to procure him that eaſe of mind which he ſaid he could no other ways hope for. 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 the age. He began with explaining the Acts of the Apoſtles to the monks of the monaſtery of St. Dennis, to which he had retired; but the diſorders of the abby, and the de- bauches of the Abbot, which, equally with his dignity, were ſuperior to thoſe of the fimple monks, quickly drove him thence. He had made himſelf uneaſy to them , by cenſuring their irre- gularity. They were glad to part with him, and he to leave them. As ſoon as he had obtained leave of the Abbot, he retired to Thibaud in Champain, where he ſet up a ſchool; perſuading himſelf that his reputa- tion would bring him a great number of ſcholars. And indeed they flocked to him, not only from the moſt diſtant provinces of France, but alſo from ABELARD AND HELOISE. 47 Rome, Spain, England, and Germany, in ſuch numbers that the towns could not provide accom- modation, nor the country proviſions enough for them *). But Abelard did not foreſee that his ſuc- ceſs and reputation would at the ſame time occa- fion him new troubles. He had made himſelf two confiderable enemies at Laon, Alberic of Rheims, and Lotulf of Lombardy, who as ſoon as they perceived how prejudicial his reputation was to their ſchools, ſought all occaſions to ruin him : and thought they had a lucky handle to do ſo from a book of his entitled the Myſłery of the Trinity; this they pretended was heretical, and through the Archbiſhop's means they procured a council at Soiſſons in the Year 1 121 ; and without ſuffering Abelard to make any defence, ordered his book to be burnt by his own hands, and him- ſelf to the convent of St. Medard. This ſentence gave him ſuch grief, that he ſays himſelf the un- happy fate of his writings touched him more ſem- fibly than the misfortune he had ſuffered through Fulbert's means. Nor was it only his fatherly con- cern for his own productions, but the indelible —w- *) Ad quas Scholas tanta Scholaritern multi- tudo confluwit, ut nec locus Hoſpitiis; nec ter- ra ſufficeret Alimentis, Abel. Oper. p. 19. º 43 the HISTORY or & t; mark of hereſy which by this means was fixed on him, which ſo exceedingly troubled him. That the curious reader may have a compleat knowledge of this matter, I ſhall here give an account of that pretended hereſy which was imputed to Abelard. The occaſion of his writing this book was, that his ſcholars demanded *) philoſophical arguments on that ſubject ; often urging that it was impoſſible to believe what was not under- ſtood; that it was to abuſe the world to preach a doctrine, equally unintelligible to the ſpeaker, and auditor; and that it was for the Blind to ledd the Blind. Theſe young Men were certainly inclined to Sabelliniſm. Abelard's enemies how- ever did not accuſe him of falling into this, but another hereſy as bad, Tritheiſm, though indeed he was equally free from both ; he explained the Unity of the Godhead by compariſons drawn from numan things, but according to a paſſage of St. Bernard”), one of his greateſt enemies, he ſeem- ed to hold that no one ought to believe what he *) Humanas et philoſophicas rationes requi- rebant, et plus quae intelligi, quam quae dici poſſent efflagitabant. Abel. Op. **) Bernardi Epiſt. 190. ABELARD AND HELOISE. 49 & could not give a reaſon, for. However, Abelard's treatiſe upon this ſubject pleaſed every one, ex- cept thoſe of his own profeſſion, who, ſtung with envy that he ſhould find out explanations which they could not have thought of, raiſed ſuch a cry of hereſy upon him, that he and ſome of his ſcho- lars had like to have been ſtoned *) by the mob. By their powerful cabals they prevailed with Coman Biſhop of Preneſte, the Pope's Legate, who was Preſident of the Council, to condemn his book, pretending, that he aſſerted three Gods, which they might eaſily ſuggeſt, when he was ſuffered to make no defence. "Tis certain he was very orthodox in the doctrine of the Trinity; and all this pro- ceſs againſt him was only occaſioned by the malice of his enemies. His logical compariſon (and Logic was his maſter piece) proved rather the three Di- vine Perſons One, than multiplied the Divine Na- ture into Three. His compariſon is, that as the *) Ita me in clero et populo diffamaverunt, ut pene me populos paucoſque, qui advenerant ea diſcipulis noſtris, prima die noſtri adventus dapidarent; dicentes me tres Deos praedicare 'et Jeriºſiſº , fcut inſis perſuaſum, fuerat. Abel. Op. p. 20. * E 56 The HISTORY or three propofitions *) in a ſylogiſm are but one truth, ſo the Father, Son, and Holy Ghoſt are but one eſſence. And ’tis certain the inconveniences which may be drawn from this parallel are not more than what may be drawn from the com- pariſon of the three dimenfions of ſolids, ſo much infifted on by that famous orthodox mathematician, Dr. Wallis of England. But great numbers of pious and learned Divines, who have not been over ſubtle in politics, have been perſecuted and condemned as well as Abelard, by the ignorance and malice of their caballing brethren. A little after his condemnation, Abelard was ordered to return to St. Dennis. The liberty he had taken to cenſure the vicious 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 and ſenſual a life, gave him jealouſy; who thought it impoſſible the heart ſhould be defiled without the head being likewiſe tainted. * *) Sicut eadem oratio eſt, propoſitio , aſ: ..ſumptio et concluſio, ita eadem Eſſentia eſ: Pa- ter, Filius et Spiritus Sanctus. Abel. Op. p. 20. ABELARD AND HELOISE, 5 L Scarce had he returned to St. Dennis, when, one day he dropt 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 was in France. This was immediately carried to the abbot, who was full of joy, that he had now a handle to heighten the accuſations of hereſy againſt him. with ſome crime againſt the State; a method free quently uſed by this ſort of gentlemen to make ſure their revenge. In thoſe times too the contra- dicting the motions of the monks was enough to prove a man an Atheiſt, Heyetic, Rebel, or any thing : Learning fignified nothing. If any one of a clearer head, and larger oapacity had the mis- fortune to be ſuſpected of novelty, there was no way to avoid the general perſecution of the monks, but voluntarily baniſhing himſelf. The Abbot im- mediately 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 Crown. Abelard very rightly judging that ſuch threatenings were not to be deſ- piſed, fled by might to Champain, to a cloiſier of the monks of Troies, and there patiently waited till the ſtorm ſhould be over. After the death of this Abbot, which, very luckily for him, hap- ſ E 2 52 THE HISTORY or | pened ſoon after his flight, he obtained leave to live where he pleaſed, though it was not without uſing ſome cumming. He knew the monks of ſo rich a houſe had fallen into great exceſſes, and were 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 diſadvantageous 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 at court to demand of the Ab- bot and monks, why they kept a perſon in their houſe whoſe conduct was ſo diſagreeable to them, and, far from being an ornament to the ſociety, was a continual vexation, by publiſhing their faults 2 This being very opportunely moved to the new Abbot, he gave Abelard leave to retire to what cloiſter he pleaſed. * Abelard, who had indeed all the qualities which make a great man, could not however bear, without repining, the numerous misfortunes with which he ſaw himſelf embaraſſed, and had frequent thoughts of publiſhing a manifeſto to juſtify himſelf from the ſcandalous imputations his enemies had laid upon him, and to undeceive thoſe whom their ABELARD AND HELOISE. 53 malice had prejudiced againſt him, JBut upon cooler thoughts, he determined that it was better to ſay nothing, and to ſhew them by his filence how un- worthy he thought them of his anger. Thus being rather enraged than troubled at the injuries he had ſuffered, he reſolved to found a new ſociety con- fifting chiefly of monks. To this purpoſe he choſe a ſolitude in the dioceſe of Troies, and upon ſome ground which was given him by permiſſion of the Biſhop, he built a little houſe, and a chapel, which he dedicated to the moſt Holy Trinity. Men of learning were then ſcarce, and the deſire of ſcience was beginning to ſpread itſelf. Our exile was inquired after and found. Scholars crowded to him from all parts; They built huts, and were very liberal to their mafier for his lectures; content to live on herbs and roots and water, that they might have the advantage of learning from ſo ex- traordinary a man; and with great zeal they en- larged the chapel, building that and their pro- feſſor's houſe with wood and ſtone. Upon this occaſion, Abelard, to continue the memory of the comfort he had received in this deſart, dedicated his new-built chapel to the Holy Ghoſt, by the name of the Paraclete or comforter. * 54 Tire HISTORY or ! The envy of Alberic and Lotulf, which had long fince perſecuted him, was ſtrangely revived, upon ſeeing ſo many ſcholars flock to him from all parts, notwithſtanding the inconveniences of the place, and in contempt of the maſters who might ſo com- modiouſly have been found in the towns and cities. They now more than ever fought occaſions to trouble him ; the name of Paraclete furniſhed them with one; they gave out that this novelty was a conſequence of his former hereſy, and that 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. This report raiſed a great clamour among numbers of people, whom his ene- mies employed from all fides. But the perſecution grew more terrible when St. Bernard and St. Norbet declared againſt him, two great zealots, fired with the ſpirit of reformation, and who declared them- ſelves reflorers of the primitive diſcipline, and had wonderfully gained upon the affections of the po- pulace. They ſpread ſuch ſcandal againſt him, that they prejudiced his principal friends, and forced thoſe who ſtill loved him, not tho ſhew , it any & ABELARD AND HELOISE. 55 ways; and upon theſe accounts made his life ſo bitter to him that he was upon the point of leav- ing Chriſtendom *). But his unhappineſs would not let him do a thing which might have procured his eaſe; but made him ſtill continue with Chriſtians, and with monks (as himſelf expreſſes it) worſe than Heathems”). *... The Duke of Britany, informed of his mis- fortunes, and of the barbarity of his enemies, nam- ed him to the Abby of St. Guildas in the dio- ceſe of Vannes, at the defire 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 arbitrarineſs of a lord, who had deprived them of the greater part of their revenues, *) Saepe autem (Deus ſity in tantam lapſus ſurn deſperationem ut Chriſtianorum finibus ear- ceſſis, ad Gentes tranſire diſponerem, atque i5: quiete ſub quacunque tributi pactione inter ini- inicos Chrifti chriſtiane vivere Abel. Op. p. 32. **) Incedi in Chriſtianos atque monachos Gen- tibus longe ſaeviores atque pejores. Ibid. 56 “THE HISTORY of & ſo that they were obliged to maintain their miſt- reſſes and children at their own private expence, occaſioned him a thouſand vexations and dangers. They ſeveral times endeavoured to poiſon him in his ordinary diet, but proving unſucceſsful that way, they tried to do it in the Holy Sacrament. Excommunications, with which he threatenéd the moſt mutinous, did not at all abate the diſorder; he now feared the poniard more than poiſon, and compared his caſe to his whom the tyrant of Syra- euſe cauſed to be ſeated at his table, with a ſword hanging over him faſtened only by a thread. Whilſt Abelard thus ſuffered in his abby by his monks; the nuns of Argenteuil, of whom Heloiſe was prioreſs, grew ſo licentious, that Sugger Ab- bot of St. Dennis taking advantage of their irre- gularities, got poſſeſſion of their monaſtery. He ſent the original writings to Rome, and having obtained the anſwer he defired, he expelled the nuns, and eſtabliſhed in their place monks of his order. Some cenſorious people upon reading this paſſage will be apt to entertain ſtrong ſuſpicions of He- loiſe; and judge it probable that a governor does not behave well, when diſſoluteneſs is known to * ABELARD and HELoISE. 57 reign in the ſociety. I have never read that ſhe was included by name in the general ſcandal of the ſociety, and therefore am cautious not to bring any accuſations againſt her. Our Saviour ſays, No one hath condemned thee, neither do iſ con- demn thee. Heloiſe, at her departure from the convent of Argenteuil, applied to her huſband; who by per- miſſion of the Biſhop of Troies, gave her the houſe and chapel of the Paraclete, with its appen- “dages; and placing there ſome nuns, founded a nunnery. Pope Innocent II. confirmed this dona- tion in the year 1 131. This in the origin of the abby of the Paraclete, of which Heloiſe was the Abbeſs. Whatever her conduct was among the li- scentious nuns of Argentueil, 'tis certain ſhe lived ſo regular in this her new and laſt retreat, and be- haved herſelf with that prudence , zeal, and piety, that ſhe won the hearts of all the world, and in a ſmall time had abundance of donations, Abelard himſelf ſays, ſhe had more in one year, than he could have expected in all his life, had he lived there. The Biſhops loved her as their child, the Abbeſſes as their fiſter, and the world as their mother; It muſt be owned ſome women have had wonderful talents for exciting Chriſtian 38 THE HISTORY OF S \ charity. The Abeſſes who ſucceeded Heloiſe have often been of the greateſt families in the kingdom. There is a liſt of them in the notes of Andrew du Cheme upon Abelard's works, from the time of the foundation in 1130. to 1615 ; but he has not thought fit to take notice of Jane Chabot, who died the 25th of June 1593, and profeſſed the proteſtant religion, yet without marrying, or quit- ting her habit, though ſhe was driven from her abby. After Abelard had ſettled Heloiſe here, he made frequent journeys from Britany to Champain, to take care of the intereſt of this rifing houſe, and to eaſe himſelf from the vexations of his own abby. But ſlander ſo perpetually followed this unhappy man, that though his preſent condition was uni- verſally known, he was reproached with a re- maining voluptuous paſſion for his former miſtreſs. He complains of his hard uſage in one of his let- ters; but comforts himſelf by the example of St. Jerom, whoſe friendſhip with Paula occaſioned ſcandal too; and thought he entirely confuted their calumny, by remarking that even the moſt jealous commit their wives to the cuſtody of eunuchs. The thing which gives the greateſt handle to ſuſpect Heloiſe's prudence, and that Abelard did sº ABELARD AND HELOISE. 59 not think himſelf ſafe with her, is his making a reſolution to ſeparate himſelf for ever from her. During his being employed in eſtabliſhing this new nunnery, and in ordering their affairs, as well temporal as ſpiritual, he was diligent in per- ſuading her by frequent and pious admonitions to ſuch a ſeparation; and infifted that in order to make their retirement and penitence more profitable, it was abſolutely neceſſary they ſhould ſeriouſly en- deavour to forget each other, and for the future think of nothing but God. When he had given her direction for her own conduct, and rules for the management of the nuns, he took his laſt leave of her and returned to his abby in Britany, where he continued a long time without her hearing any mention of him. By chance a letter he wrote to one of his friends - to comfort him under ſome diſgraces, wherein he had given him a long account of all the perſecu- tions he himſelf had ſuffered, fell into Heloiſe’s hands. She knew by the ſuperſcription from whom it came, and her curioſity made her open it; the reading the particulars of a ſtory ſhe was ſo much concerned in renewed all her paſſion, and ſhe hence took an occaſion to write to him, complain- ing of his long filence, Abelard could not forbear 6o & THE HISTORY or anſwering her; this occaſioned the ſeveral letters between them which follow this hiſtory; and in theſe we may obſerve how high a woman is cap- able of raiſing the ſentiments of her heart, when poſſeſſed of a great deal of wit and learning, as well as a moſt violent kove. I ſhall not tire the reader with any further re- flections on the letters of theſe two lovers, but leave them entirely to his -own judgment: only remarking, that he ought not to be ſurpriſed to find Heloiſe's more tender, paſſionate, and ex- preſſive than thoſe of Abelard : She was younger, and conſequently more ardent than he. The ſad condition he was in had not altered her love. Be- fides, ſhe retired only in complaiſance to a man ſhe blindly yielded to ; and, reſolved to preſerve her fidelity inviolable, ſhe ſtrove to conquer her defires, and make a virtue of neceſſity. But the weakneſs of her ſex continually returned, and ſhe felt the force of Iove in ſpite of all reſiſtance. It was not the ſame with Abelard; for though it was a miſtake to think, that by met being if a condi- tion of ſatisfying his paſſion, he was, as Heloiſe imagined, wholly delivered from the thorn of ſen- ſuality; yet he was truly ſorry for the diſorders of his paſt life, he was firicerely penitent, and ABELARD AND HELOISE. 61 therefore his letters are leſs violent and paſſionate than thoſe of Heloiſe. About ten years after Abelard had retired to his abby, where ſtudy was his chief buſineſs; his enemies, who had reſolved to perſecute him to the laſt, were careful not to let him enjoy the eaſe of retirement: They thought he was not ſuffici- ently plagued with his monks, and therefore brought a new proceſs of hereſy againſt him before the Archbiſhop of Sens. He defired 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 VIIth aſſiſted in perſon, in the year 1 14o. St. Bernard was the accuſer, and delivered to the aſſembly ſome propoſitions drawn from Abelard's book, which were read in the council. This accuſation gave Abelard ſuch fears, and was managed with ſuch 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, notwithſtanding his appeal, condemned his book, but did not meddle with his perſon : and gave an account of the whole proceeding to 62 The HISTORY of Pope Innocent II; praying him to confirm their ſentence. St Bernard had been ſo, early in prepoſ- ſeſſing the Pontiff, that he got the ſentence con- firmed before. Abelard heard any thing of it, or had any time to preſent himſelf before the tribu- mal, to which he had appealed. His Holineſs or- dered befides , that Abelard's books ſhould be burnt, himſelf confined, and for ever prohibited. from teaching, This paſſage of St. Bernard's life is not much for the honour of his memory; And whether he took the trouble himſelf to extract the condemned propoſitions from Abelard's works, or intruſted it to another hand, 'tis certain the paper he gave in contained many things which Abelard never wrote, and others which he did not mean in, the ſenſe imputed to him. When a few particular expreſſions are urged foo rigidly, and unthought of conſequences drawn from ſome aſſertions, and no regard is had to the general intent and ſcope of an author, it is no difficult matter to find errors in any book. For this reaſon Beranger of Poitiers, Abelard's ſcho- lar, defended his maſter againſt St. Bernard, tell- ‘ng him, he ought not to perſecute others, whoſe $ ABELARD AND HELOISE. 63 * -own writings were not exempt from errors; de- monſtrating that he himſelf had advanced a poſi- tion, which he would not have failed to have in- ſerted, in his extract as a monſtrous doctrine, if he had found it in the writings of Abelard. Some time after Abelard's condemnation, the Pope was appeaſed, at the ſolicitation of the Ab- bot of Clugni, who received this unfortunate gentle- man in his monaſtery with great humanity, re- conciled 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 labo- rious. At laſt growing weak, and afflicted with a complication of diſeaſes, he was ſent to the Priory of St. Marcel upon the Saone, near Chalons, a very agreeable 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 Heloiſe, to be interred, according to her former requeſt of him, and to his own deſire. The Abbot of Clugni, when he. ſent the body to Heloiſe, ac- , cording to the cuſtom of thoſe times, ſent with it an abſolution to be fixed together with his epitaph 64 The HISTORY or on his graveſtone, which abſolution was as fol- lows. * I Peter Abbot of Clugni, having received Father Abelard into the number of my religious, and now given leave that his body be privately con- veyed to the abby of the Pâraclete, to be diſpo- Jed of by Heloiſe, Abbeſs of the ſame abby; do by the authority of God and all the Saints s, abſolve the ſaid Abelard from all his fins"). Heloiſe, who ſurvived him twenty years, had all the leiſure that could be to effect the cure of her unhappy paſſion. Alas! ſhe was very long about it! She paſt the reſt of her days like a reli- gious and devout Abbeſs, frequent in prayer, and entirely employed in the regulation of her ſociety. She loved ſtudy, and being miſtreſs of the learned languages, the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, ſhe *) Ego Petrus Cluniacenſis Abbas, qui Pet. Abelardum in Monacum Cluniacenſem recept, et corpus ejus furtim delatum Heloiſſae Abba- , tiſſae et monialibus Paracleti conceffº, author:- tate omnipotentis Dei et omnium Sanctorum, abſolvo eum pro officio ab omnibus peocatisſuis. 'ABELARD AND HELOISE. 65 was eſteemed a miracle of learning. Abelard, in a letter he wrote to the religious of his new houſe, ſays expreſſly, that Heloiſe underſtood theſe three languages. The Abbot of Clugni likewiſe, in a let- ter he wrote to her, tells her, ſhe excelled in learning not only all her ſex, but the greateſt part of men”). And in the calendar of the houſe of the Paraclete, ſhe is recorded in theſe words : Heloiſe, mother and firſt Abbeſs of this place, famous for her learning and religion. I muſt not here paſs by a cuſtom the religious of the Paráclete now have, to commemorate how learned their firſt Abbeſs was in the Greek, which is, that every year on the day of Pentecoſt they perform divine ſervice in the Greek tongue. What a ridiculous vanity & Francis D'Amboiſe tells us how ſubtilly, one day ſhe ſatisfied St. Bernard, upon his aſking her, why in her abby, when they recited the Lord's Prayer, they did not ſay, Give us this day our DAILP Bread, but Give us this day our SUPERSUBSTANTIAL Bread, by an *) Studio tuo et mulieres omnes eviciſii et pene viros univerſos ſuperaſti, Abel. Op. F 56 The HISTORY of argument drawn from the originals, affirming we ought to follow the Greek verſion of the Goſpel St. Matthew wrote in Hebrew. Without doubt it was not a little ſurpriſing to St. Bernard, to hear a woman poſe him in a controverſy, by citing a Greek text. “Tis true, ſome authors ſay Abelard made this anſwer to St. Bernard, after hearing from Heloiſe, that objections were made to that form of prayer. However the caſe was, a woman with a ſmall competency of learning, might in thoſe times paſs for a miracle; and though ſhe might not equal thoſe deſcriptions which have been given of her, yet ſhe may deſervedly be pla- ced in the rank of women of the greateſt learning. Nor was ſhe leſs remarkable for her piety, pa- tience, and reſignation, during her ſickneſſes, in the latter part of her life. She died the 17th of May, 1163. 'Tis ſaid ſhe defired to be buried in the ſame tomb with her Abelard, though that probably was not executed. Francis D'Amboiſe ſays, he ſaw at the convent the tombs of the founder and foundreſs near together. However, a manuſcript of Tours gives us an account of an ex- traordinary miracle which happened when Abe- lard's grave was opened for Heloiſe's body, name- ly, that Abelard ſtretched out his arms to ree ceive her, and embraced her cloſely; though there" \ # 3. % As - . .” •y - - - ZŽe .72ca2% o/* Z/ºzz e Z cozzec. 7 afterºzºzaze Ž car. Zºe, 2 & Co (faze 2- . ... 2 * :/ 4 Af * / • . * * , C c (c. &c. 2%za' . zczz/ e º ez-6/2 ozzzzzzz /Zeze's, Z%zz, ž/~e .., 222 eas, zzazz / … ', 'e fr. / 2, . 7/ %2c7%zoc, 2% Z zz, (…& Jerºe .7/~zz : A2 % . * ABELARD AND HELOISE, 67 were twenty good years paſſed ſince he died. But that is a ſmall matter to a writer of miracles. I ſhall conclude this hiſtory with an epitaph on Abelard, which the Abbot of Clugni ſent Heloiſe, and which is now to be read on his tomb; it hath nothing in it delicate either for thought or lan- guage, and will ſcarcely bear a tranſlation. It is only added here for the ſake of the curious, and as an inſtance of the reſpect paid to the memory of ſo great a man, and one whom envy had load- ed with the greateſt defamations. PETRUS in hac petra latitat, quem mun- dus Homerum Clamabat, ſed jam ſidera fidus habent. Solerat hic Gallis, ſed eum jam fata tuierunt; Ergo caret Regio Gallia Sole ſuo. Ille ſciens quidquid fuit ulli ſcibile, vicit Artifices, artes abſue docente docens. Undecimae Maij Petrum rapuere Calendae, Privantes Logices atria Rege ſuo. Eft ſatis, in tumulo Petrus hic jacet Abelardus, Cui ſoli patuit.ſcibile quidguiderat. F 2 ºs. º s8 THE HISTORY of ABEL AND HEL. tgallorum Socrates, Plato maximus Heſpe- rzarla V72 Noſter Ariſtoteles, Logicis (quicumque fuerunt). Aut par aut meliors ſtudiorum cognitus orbi Princeps, ingenio varius, ſubtilis et acer; tomnia vi ſuperans rationis et arte loquendi; Abaelardus erat. Sed nunc magis omnia vincit, cum Cluniacenſem Monacum, morem que pro- feſſus, - Ad Chriſti veram tranſivit Philoſophiam, In qua longaevae bene complens ultima vitae, Philoſophis quandogue bonis.ſe connumerandum Aspem dedit, undenas Maio renovante Calendas. 69 L E T T E R s O F ABEL ARD and HELois E. += =N= L E T T E R. I. ABELARD"To PHILINTUS, it may be proper to acquaint the reader that the following letter was written by Abelard to a friend, to comfort him under ſome af. jlictions 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 Heloiſe, aud the unhappy conſequences of it. This letter was written ſe- . veral years after Abelard's ſeparation from Heloiſe. º THE laſt time we were together, Philintus, you gave me a melancholy account of your misfor- tunes ; I was ſenſibly touched with the relation, 7o ABELARD to PHILINTUs. and like a true friend bore a ſhare in your griefs. What did I not ſay to fiop your tears? I laid be- fore you all the reaſons Philoſophy could furniſh, which I thought might any ways ſoften the firokes of fortune: But all theſe endeavours have proved uſeleſs : Grief I perceive has wholly ſeized your ſpirits; and your prudence, far from aſſifting, ſeems quite to have forſaken you. But my ſkilful friendſhip has found out an expedient to relieve you Attend to me a moment, hear but the flory of my misfortunes; and yours, Philintus, will be nothing, if you compare them with thoſe of the loving and unhappy Abélard. Obſerve, I beſeech 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 re- collect without piercing my heart with the moſt ſenfible 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 incon- ſtancy. 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 apt- ABELARD To PHILINTUS. 71 aeſs for all the polite arts. My father was a gentle- man, and a man of good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his ſentiments from many who follow that profeſſion. 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 Bel- lona. He was the ſame in the management of his family, and took equal care to form his children to the ſtudy of polite learning, as to their military exerciſes. As I was his 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 fides were beſtowed upon me I aſpired to ao reputation, but what proceeded from learning. To my brothers I left the glory of battles, and the pomp of triumphs : may more, I yielded 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 diffinguiſhed myſelf from others by nothing but a more plen- tiful fortune. Of all the ſciences, Logic was the moſt to my taſte. Such were the arms I choſe to profeſs. Furniſhed with the weapons of reaſoning, I took pleaſure in going to public diſputations, to win trophies; and wherever I heard that this art 7. ABELARD to PHILINTUs. A flouriſhed, I ranged , like another Alexander, from province to province, to ſeek new adver- ſåries, with whom I might try my ſtrength. -The ambition I had to become formidable in Logic led me at 1aſt to Paris, the center of polite- neſs, 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 philoſopher of his age; by nega- tive excellencies only, by being the the leaſt igno- rant. 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 ſubjects he diſ- courſed upon; I often confuted his motions; 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 reſentment. It is fometimes 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 jea- - louſy I had raiſed, i thought I had no farther oc- ABEL ARD To PHILINTUS. 73 caſion for Champeaux's Lectures, but rather that . I was ſufficiently 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 before I had done over his learning. My lectures were always crowded, and my be- ginnings ſo fortunate, that I entirely obſcured the renown of my famous maſter. Fluſhed with theſe happy conqueſts, I removed to Corbeil, to attack the maſters there, and ſo eſtabliſh my character of the ableſ logician. The violence of travelling threw me into a dangerous difiemper, and not being able to recover my ſtrength, my phyſicians, who per- haps were in a league, with Champeaux, adviſed me to remove to my mative 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 the contrary, 'twas 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 ſhort- eſtway to the higheſt. Eccleſiaſtical dignities. His G 74 ABELARD to PHILINTUs. wiſhes were ſucceſsful, and he obtained a biſhop- ric: Yet did he not quit Paris, 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 who 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 2 When ſtaked on this right hand your hon- Yours 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 fixty had lived very agreeably, retired from the world, and ſhut himſelf up in a cloiſter, where he offered up to heaven the languid remains of a life he could make no farther uſe of My mother, who was yet young, took the ſame reſo- lution. She turned a religious, but did not entirely abandom the ſatisfactions of life. Her friends were sontinually at the grate. And the monaſtery, when one has an inclination to make it ſo, is exceed. ingly charming and pleaſant. I was preſent when my mother was profeſſed, At my return I reſolved ABELARD To PHILINTEJS. 75 to ſtudy Divinity, and inquired for a director in that ſtudy. I was recommended to one Anſelm, the very oracle of his 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 conſe- quence was to be much more uncertain in the point. They who only ſaw him admired him, but thoſe who reaſoned with him were extremely diſ- ſatisfied. He was a great maſter of words, and talked much, but meant nothing. His diſcourſe was a fire, which inſtead of enlightening obſcured “… every thing with its ſmoke ; a tree beautified with a variety of leaves and branches ..but barren. I came to him with a defire 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 ſhadow. I took for my guides the primitive Fathers, and boldly launched into the ocean of the Holy Scriptures. In a ſhort time, I. made ſuch a progreſs, that others choſe me for their director. The number of my ſcholars was in- credible, and the gratuities I received from them were anſwerable to the great reputation I had acquired. Now I found myſelf ſafe in the harbour, the florms were paſſed, and the rage of my ene- mies had ſpent itſelf without effect. Happy, had 1. tº G 2. 76 . ABELARD to PHILINTUS. 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. And 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 philoſopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my wiſdom; his darts were of greater force than all my reaſonings, and with a ſweet conſtraint he led me whither he pleaſ- ed. Heaven, amidſt an abundance of bleſtings with which I was intoxicated, threw in a heavy affliction. I became a moſt ſignal example of its vengeance ; and the more unhappy, becauſe, hav- ing deprived me of the means of accompliſhing my ſatisfaction, it left me to the fury of my cri- minal defires. 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 wo- men, 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. sº ABELARD To PHILINTUS. 77 There was in Paris a young creature, ah Phi- lintus ! formed in a prodigality of nature, to ſhew mankind a finiſhed compoſition; dear Heloiſe! the reputed niece of one Fulbert, a Canon. Her wit and her beauty would have fired the dulleſt and moſt inſenfible heart; and her education was equally admirable. Heloiſe 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 affec- tions. The thirſt of glory cooled immediately in my heart, and all my paſſions were loſt in this new one. I thought of nothing but Heloiſe; every thing brought her image to my mind. I was pen- five, reſtleſs, and my paſſion was ſo violent as to admit of no reſtraint. I was always vain and pre- ſumptive; I flattered myſelf already with the moſt bewitching hopes. My reputation 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 ſhew an inſenſi- bility to thoſe vows which my heart never formed for any but herſelf? My perſon was advantageous enough , and by my dreſs no one would have ſuſpected me for a doctor; and dreſs, you know, is not a little engaging with women. Befides, I had wit enough to write a Billet-dour, and 78 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS, hoped, if ever ſhe permitted my abſent ſelf to en- tertain her, ſhe would read with pleaſure thoſe breathings of my heart. Filled with theſe motions, I thought of nething 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. I paid him indeed a confiderable ſum , for perſons of his character do nothing without money. But what would I not have given 2 You, my dea friend, know what love is; imagine then what a pleaſure it muſt have been to a heart ſo inflamed as mine, to be always ſo near the dear object o deſire? I would not have exchanged my happy? condition for that of the greateſt monarch upon earth, I ſaw Heloiſe , ſpoke to her—each action, each confuſed look, told her the trouble of my ſoul. And ſhe, on the other fide, gave me ground to hope for every thing from her generoſity. Fulbert deſired me to inſtruct her in philoſophy; by this means I found oportunities of being in private with her, and yet I was, ſure, of all men the moſt timorous in declaring my paſſion. ABELARD to PHILINTUS. 79 As I was with her one day, alone, Charming Heloiſe, ſaid f bluſhing, if you know yourſelf, you will not be ſurprized with that paſſion you have inſpired me with. Uncommon as it is, I can expreſs it but with the common terms——I love you, adorable Heloiſe? Till now I thought phi- loſophy made us maſters of all our paſſions, and that it was a refuge from the ſtorms in which weak mortals are toſſed and ſhipwrecked : But you have deſtroyed my ſecurity, and broken this philo- ſophic courage. I have deſpiſed riches; honour and its pageantries could never raiſe a weak thought in me. Beauty alone has fired my ſoul; happy if ſhe who raiſed this paſſion, kindly receives the declara- tion; but if it is an offence———No, replied Heloiſe; ſhe muſt be very ignorant of your merit, who can be offended at your paſſion? But for my own repoſe, I wiſh either that you had not made this declara- tion, or that I were at liberty not to ſuſpect your ſincerity. Ah! divine Heloiſe, ſaid I, flinging my- ſelf at her feet, I ſwear by yourſelf — — I was going on to convince her of the truth of my paſ- fion , but heard a noiſe, and it was Fulberts There was no avoiding it, but I muſt do a vio- lence to my defire, and change the diſcourſe to ſome other ſubject. After this, I found frequent op- Portunities to free Heloiſe from thoſe ſuſpicions, 80 ABELARD to PHILINTUs. # -> which the general infincerity 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 between us...The ſame houſe, the ſame love, united our perſons and our defires. How many ſoft moments did we paſs together? We took all opportunities to expreſs to each other our mutual affections, and were ingénious in con- triving incidents which might give us...a plauſible occaſion of meeting, Piramis and Thiſbe's diſcovery of the crack in the wall, was but a ſlight repre- ſentation of our love and its ſagacity. In the death of night, when Fulbert and his domeſtics were in a ſound ſleep, we improved the time, proper to the ſweet thefts of love : Not contenting our- ſelves, like thoſe unfortunate 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 ſcien- ces, that I loſt all my taſte of them, and when I was obliged to go from the fight of my dear miſtreſs to my philoſophical exerciſes, ’twas with the ut- moſt regret and melancholy. Love is incapable of being concealed; a word, a look, nay filence ſpeaks it. My ſcholars difcovered it firſt; they ſaw ABELARD To PHILINTU.S. 81 I had no longer that vivacity of thought to which all things were eaſy: I could now do nothing but write verſes to ſooth my paſſion : I quitted Ariſ. totle 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 learn- ing 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 Heloiſe and Abélard were the ſubject of all converſations, 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 began to be leſs-incredulous. He ſurpriſed us in one of our more ſoft converſations. How fatal ſometimes are the conſequences of curioſity The anger of Fulbert ſeemed too moderate on this occaſion, and, I feared in the end ſome more heavy re- venge. 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 Heloiſe. But 3? ABELARD to PHILINTUs. 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. My intrigues gave me but litte Thame, 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 met, and impute it all to me. Fulbert ſurpriſed me with Heloiſe, and what man that had a ſoul in him would not have born any ignominy on the ſame conditions? The next day I provided myſelf with a private lodging near the loved houſe, being re- ſolved 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 3o we bear our misfortunes N It being impoſſible that I could live without £eeing Heloiſe, I endeaveured to engage her ſer- vant, whoſe name was Agaton, in my intereſt: She was brown, well ſhaped, of a perſon ſuperior to the ordinary rank; her features regular, and her eyes ſparkling; fit to raiſe love in any man whoſe heart was not prepoſſeſſed by another paſ- wº \ ABELARD to PHILINTUS. -83 fion. 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 ſhining metal, which lays aſleep guards, forces a way through rocks, and ſoftems the hearts of the moſt obdurate fair. You are miſ- taken, ſaid ſhe, ſmiling and ſhaking her head— you do not know me ; could gold tempt me, a rich Abbot takes his mightly ſtation, and fings under my window; he offers to ſend me to his abby, which, he ſays, is fituated in the moſt plea- ſant country in the world. A Courtier offers me a confiderable ſum, and aſſures me I need have no apprehenſions; for if our amours have conſe- quences, he will marry me to his Gentleman, 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 imaginable forms. It muſt be love only which could oblige him to follow me ; for I have not, like your great tadies, any rings or jewels to tempt him : Yet during all his fiege of love, his feather and his embroidered coat have not made any breach in my heart: I ſhall not quickly be brought to capi- tulate; I am too faithful to my firſt conqueror– and then ſhe looked earneſtly on me. I anſwered, 84 ABELARD TO PHILINTUS. I did not underſtand her diſcourſe. She replied, For a man of ſenſe and gallantry, you have a very ſlow apprehenfion: I am in love with you, Abe- lard; I know you adore Heloiſe, I do not blame you: I defire only to enjoy the ſecond place in your affections; I have a tender heart, as well as my miſtreſs; you may without difficulty 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. Wou cannot imagine, Philintus, how much I was ſurpriſed at theſe words; ſo entirely did I love Theloiſe, 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 conſequences. She haſtened to Fulbert, and told him 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 imagined. Let no lover hereafter follow my example: A woman rejected is an outrageous creature. Agaton was day and night at her win- ABELARD To PHILINTUS, 85 dow, on purpoſe to keep me at a diſtance from her miſtreſs, and ſo gave her own gallants oppor- tunity enough to diſplay their ſeveral abilities. • I was infinitely perplexed what courſe to take; at laſt I applied myſelf to my Heloiſe's finging ma- ſter. The ſhining metal, which had no effect on Agaton, charmed him; he was excellently quali- fied for conveying a billet, with the greateſt dexte- rity and ſecrecy. He delivered one of mine to He- loiſe, who, according to my appointment, was ready at the end of a garden, the wall of which I ſcaled by a ladder of ropes. I confeſs to you all my failings, Philintus. How would my enemies, Champeaux and Anſelm, have triumphed, had they ſeen the redoubted philoſopher in ſuch a wretched condition ? Well—I met my ſoul's joy, my Heloiſe; I ſhall not deſcribe our tranſports, they were not long; for the firſt news Heloiſe ac- quainted me with, plunged me in a thouſand di- ſtractions. A floating Delos was to be ſought for , where ſhe might be ſafely delivered of a burden 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 fifter took care of. 86 ABELARD" To PHILINTUS. This carrying off Heloiſe was ſufficient revenge upon Fulbert. It filled him with the deepeſt con- cern, 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 occaſion of ſuſpecting him for ſomething more than the uncle of Heloiſe. In ſhort, I began to pity his misfortune, and to think this robbery which love had made me com- mit was a ſort of treaſon. I endeavoured to ap- peaſe his anger by a ſincere confeſſion of all that was paſt, and by hearty engagements to marry Heloiſe ſecretly. He gave me his conſent, and with many ploteſtations and embraces confirmed our reconciliation. But what dependance 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 Heloiſe, whom I now conſidered as my 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 bond always fatal to a ~~ ABELARD To PHILINTUS. 37 philoſopher; that the cries of children and cares of a family were utterly inconſiſtent with the tranquillity and application which the ſtudy of Philoſophy required. She quoted to me all all that was written on the fubject by Theophraſtus, Ci- cero, and above all infiſted 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 2 Pleaſures taſted ſparingly, and with difficulty, have always a higher reliſh, while every thing, by being eaſy and common, grows flat and infipid. I was unmoved by all this reaſoning. Helóiſe prevailed upon my fifter to engage me. Lucilla (for that was her name) taking me afide one day ſaid, What do you intend, brother? Is it poſſible that Abelard ſhould in earneſt think of marrying Heloife? 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 fickneſs 7 When thoſe features, with which you have been ſo captivated, **. 38 ABELARD to PHILINTUS. 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. Do you think learning ought to make Heloiſe more amiable? I know ſhe is not one of thoſe affected females, who are continually oppreſſing you with fine ſpeeches, criticiſing books, and deciding upon the merit of aisthors. When ſuch a one is in the fury of her diſcourſe, huſ- band, friends, º , all fly before her. Heloiſe has not this fault; yet 'tis troubleſome not to be at liberty to uſe the leaſt improper expreſſion be- fore a wife, which you bear with pleaſure from a miſtreſs. | But you ſay you are ſure of the affections of Heloiſe; I believe it; ſhe has given you no ordi- mary proofs. But can you be ſure marriage will not be the tomb of her love 2' The name of huſ. band and maſter are always harſh , and Heloiſe will not be the Phoenix you now think her. Will ſhe not be a woman? Come, come, the head of a Philoſopher is leſs ſecure than thoſe of other men. My fiſter grew warm in the argument, and was going on to give me a hundred more reaſons of ABELARD To PHILINTUS. $. this kind; but f angrily interrupted her, telling her only, that ſhe did not know Heloiſe. A few days after we departed together from Britany, and came to Paris, where I compleated my project. 'Twas my intent my marriage ſhould be kept ſecret, and therefore Heloiſe retired among the nuns of Argenteuil. I now thought Fulbert's anger diſarmed; I lived in peace; but alas! our marriage proved but a weak defence againſt his revenge. Obſerve, Phi- lintus, to what a barbarity he purſued it ! He brib- ed my ſervants; an aſſaſſin came into my bed- chamber by might with a razor 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, without loſing my life, I loſt my manhood. I was puniſhed in the offending part; the defire was left me, but not the poſſibi- . łity of ſatisfying the paſſion. So cruel an action eſcaped not unpuniſhed; the villain ſuffered the ſame infliction; poor comfort for ſo irretrievable an evil! I confeſs to you, ſhame more than any ſincere penitence made me reſolve to hide myſelf from the fight of men, yet could I not ſeparate H -90 ABEL ARD To PHILINTUS. myſelf from my. Heloiſe. Jealouſy took poſſeſſion of my mind; and at the very expence of her hap- pineſs I decreed to diſappoint all rivals: Before I put myſelf in a cloiſter, I obliged her to take the habit, and retire into the aunnery 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’Conjua', ego te ſcelerata peremi. , --Te fata eactrema petente Wita digna fui 2 AMoriar——etc. O my lov'd Lord! our fatal marriage draws On thee this doom, and I the guilty cauſe ! Then, whilſt thou goºſt th' eartremes of fate to c } prove , **** & J. f’ll ſhare that fate, and expiate thus my love. Speaking theſe verſes, ſhe marched up to the al- tar, 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 de- liberating a moment longer, I buried myſelf in a cloiſtcr; reſolved to vanguiſh a fruitleſs paſſion. I “, / y , 2,222, 2’-27 /2%z 22/2–2222 2.7% 24-y 22%22z 2,… 22% ºxz22% 9.2% Aºzzzy.ºz z 22% ºy' 2./º/º/” .222. .2e2 /32 & 42%z ; 22222*22-y 2%, 2.2%'Z/ 42%, 22,222/2/. 222A-Z & &Z ABELARD To PHILINTUS, 91 now reflected that God had chaſtiſed me thus griev, ouſly, that he might ſave me from that deſtruc- tion in which I had like to have been ſwallowed up. In order to avoid idleneſs, the unhappy in- cendiary of thoſe criminal 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. L gave the novices rules of Divinity agreeable to the Holy Fathers and Councils. In the mean while the enemies which my new fame had raiſed up , and eſpecially Al- beric and Lotulf , who, after the death of their mafiers Champeaux and Anſelm, aſſumed the ſo- vereignty of learning, began to attack me. They loaded me with the falſeſt imputations, and, not- withſtanding all my defence, I had the mortifica- tion to ſee my books condemned by a Council, and burnt. This was a cutting ſorrow, and believe me, Philiatus, the former calamity I ſuffered by the cruelty of Fulbert, was nothing in compariſon to this. The affront I had newly received, and the ſcandalous debaucheries of the monks, obliged me to baniſh myſelf, and retire near to Nogent. I liv- ed in a deſart, where I flattered myſelf I ſhould avoid fame, and be ſecure from the malice of my H 2 ‘92 ABELARD To PHH.INTUS. enemies. I was again deceived. The defire of being taught by me, drew crowds of auditors even thither. Many ieft the towns and their houſes, and came and lived in tents; for herbs, coarſe fare, and hard lodging, they abondoned 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 condemned. And happy had it been if our ſolitude had been inacceſſible to envy With the confiderable gratuities I received, I built a chapel, and dedicated it to the Holy Ghoſt, by the name of the Paraclete. The rage of my ene- mies now awakened again, and forced me to quit this retreat. This I did without much difficulty. 18ut firſt the Biſhop of Troies gave me leave to eſtabliſh there a nunnery, which I did, and com- mitted the care of it to my dear Heloiſe. When I Had ſettled her here, can you believe it, Philin- tus? I left her, without taking any leave. I did not wander long without any ſettled habitation: for the Duke of Britany, informed of my misfor- tunes, named me to the Abby of St. Guildas, where I now am, and where I ſuffer every day freſh perſecutions. ; g º tº g ; 4. I live in a barbarous country, the languáge of ABELARD To PHILINTUS. 93 which I do not underſtand; I have no converſation but with the rudeſt people. My walks are on the inacceſſible ſhore of a ſea, which is perpetually ſtormy. My monks are only known by their diſſo- luteneſs, and living without any rule or order. Could you ſee the Abby, Philintus, you would mot call it one. The doors and walls are without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hind's feet, which are mailed 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 were their greateſt fault 1 or that their pleaſures terminated there ! I endeavour in vain to recal them to their duty; they all combine againſt me, and I only expoſe myſelf to continual vexations and dangers. I imagine I ſee every moment a na- ked ſword hang over my head. Sometimes they ſurround me, and load me with infinite abuſes : ſometimes they abandom me, and I am left alone td* my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavour to merit by my ſufferings, and to ap- peaſe an angry God. 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 He- 94 ABELARD to PHILINTUs. loiſe ſtill burn in my heart? I have not yet tri- umphed over that unhappy paſſion. In the midſt of my retirement I figh, I weep, I pine, I ſpeak the dear name Heloiſe, 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 grace. I am thoroughly wretch- ed. 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 plea- ſure to relate my paſt follies? Could I not more eaſily comfort myſelf in my afflictions, could I not turn to my advantage thoſe words of God Himſelf, If they have perſecuted me, they will alſo perſecute you ; if the world hate you, ye Know that it hated me alſo 2 Come, Philintus, let us make a ſtrong effort, turn our misfortunes to our advantage, make them meritorious, or at leaſt wipe out our offences; let us receive 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 £hould be happy. I, E. T. T E R II. HELoISE to AB ELA R D. The foregoing Letter would probably not have produced any others, if it had been delivered to the perſon to whom it was directed; but falling by accident into Heloiſe's hands, who Ánew the character, ſhe opened it, and read it ; and, by that means, her former paſſion 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 earpreſs all that is humble, reſpectful, and loving, to her Abelard, He- loiſe writes this. - A Consolator x letter of yours to a friend, happened ſome days ſince to fall into my hands: *) Domino ſuo, immo Patri; Conjugi ſuo, immo Fratri ; Ancilla ſua, immo Filia; ipſius U.ror, immo $oror; Abaelardo Heloíſa, etc. Abel. Oper. -- 96 HELOISE to ABELARD. ae * > my knowledge of the character, and my love of the hand, ſoon gave me the curioſity to open it: In juſtification of the liberty I took, I flattered myſelf I might claim a ſovereign privilege over every thing which 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 curioſity coſt me? What diſturbance dit it occaſion ? And how was I ſur- priſed to find the whole letter filled with a parti- cular and melancholy account of our misfortunes? I met with my name a hundred times; I never ſaw it without fear : ſome heavy calamity 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 revolu- tions. What reflections did I not make 2 I began to confider 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 hand was ſufficient to make them all open and bleed afreſh. Nothing can ever ‘blot from my memory what you have ſuffered in HELoISE to ABELARD, 97 º:- # defence of your writings. I cannot help thinking of the rancorous malice of Alberic and Lotulf. A cruel uncle, and an injured lover , will be al- ways preſent to my aking fight. I ſhall never for- get what enemies your learning, and what envy your glory raiſed againſt you. I ſhall never forget your reputation, ſo juſtly acquired, torn to pieces, and blaſted by the inexorable cruelty of half-learn- ed pretenders to ſcience. Was not your treatiſe of divinity condemned to be burnt? Were you not threatened with perpetual impriſonment 2 In vain you urged in your defence, that your enemies im- poſed on you opinions quite different from your meaning: In vain you condemned thoſe opinions; all was of no effect towards your juſtification; 'twas reſolved you ſhould be a heretic. What did not thoſe two falſe Prophets”) accuſe you of, who declaimed ſo ſeverely againſt you before the coun- cil of Sens 2 What ſcandals were vented on occa- fion of the mame Paraclete given to your chapel? What a ſtorm was raiſed againſt you by the trea- cherous monks, when you did them the Ronour to be called their brother ? This hiſtory of our numerous misfortunes, related in ſo true and mov- ing a manner, made my heart bleed within me; *) St. Bernard and St. Norbert. I º 98 HELOISE Te ABELARD. 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 condi- tion : 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, Sure all 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 unre- --lenting enemies ſtill burns with the ſame fury. Since length of time, which diſarms the ſtrongeſt hatred, ſeems but to aggravate theirs; fince it is decreed that your virtue ſhall be perſecuted, '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 worlds, if poſſible, to ſhame an age that has not known how to value you. I will ſpare no Orle 2 fince no one would intereſt himſelf to protect yout, and your enemies are never weary of oppreſſing your innocence. Alas! my memory is perpetually. filled with bitter remembrances of paſt evils, and _* HELOISE to ABELARD. 99 are there more to be feared ſtill ? Shall my Abe- lard be never mentioned without tears ? Shall the dear name be never ſpoken but with fighs 2 Ob- ſerve, I beſeech you, to what a wretched condi- tion 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 relief which you only can give. Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. I would know every thing, be it ever ſo unfortu- nate. Perhaps , by mingling my fighs with yours, I may make your ſufferings leſs; if that obſerva- tion 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 chooſes the fide of the virtuous; and fortune is ſo blind, that in a crowd, in which there is perhaps bút one wiſe and brave man, it is not to be expected ſhe ſhould fingle him out. Write to me then im- mediately, and wait not for miracles; they are too ſcarce, and we too much accuſtomed to mis- I 2 1 OO HELOISE. To ABELARD. fortunes 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 know you ſtill remember me. Seneca, (with whoſe 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 ima- gined he felt the ſame delight as when they con- verſed together. “I have made it an obſervation fince our abſence, that we are much fonder of the pictures of thoſe we love, when they are at a great diſtance, than when they are near to us. It ſeems to me, as if the farther they are removed, their pictures grow the more finiſhed, and acquire a greater reſemblance : at leaſt our imagination, which perpetually figures them to us by the defire we have of ſeeing them again, makes us think ſo. By a peculiar power, love can make that ſeem life itſelf, which, as ſoon as the loved object returns, is nothing but a little canvas and dead colours. I have your pic- ture in my room, I never paſs by it without ſtop- ping to look at it; and yet when you were pre- ſent with me, I ſcarce ever caſt my eyes upon it. If a picture, which is but a mute repreſentation of HELOISE to ABELARD. 1 O Í 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 beyond it. We may write to each other; ſo innocent a pleaſure is not forbidden us. Let us not loſe, through negligence, the only happineſs which is left us, and the only one perhaps which the ma- - lice of our enemies can never raviſh from us. I fhall 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 com- forting 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 happi- I O2: HELOISE 'ro ABELARD, neſs of thoſe rivals. That writing may be no trouble to you, write always to me careleſly, and without ſtudy : I had rather read the dictates of the heart s 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 vio- lence to yourſelf. And fince, by that melan- choly relation to your friend, you have awakened all my ſorrows, it is but reaſonable you ſhould allay them by ſome marks of an inviolable love. I do not however reproach you for the immo- cent artifice you made uſe of to comfort a perſon in affliction, 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 intimate 2 We are called your fiſters; we call ourſelves your children; and if it were poſ- ſible to think of any expreſſions which could fig- nify a dearer relation, or a more affectionate re- gard and mutual obligation between us, we would uſe them : If we could be ſo ungrateful as not to ſpeak our juſt acknowledgments to you , this church, theſe altars, theſe walls, would reproach * * HELOISE. To ABELARD, 103 our filence and ſpeak for us. But without leaving it to that, it will be always a pleaſure to me to ſay, that yon only are the founder of this houſe; it is wholly your work. You, by inhabiting 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 vine- yard 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 renuncia- tion, our vows, and our manner of life ſeem to ſecure us from all temptations ; though our walls and grates prohibit all approaches, yet ’tis the outfide only, the bark of the tree is covered from injuries: while the ſap of original corruption may S imperceptibly ſpread within, even to the heart, and prove fatal to the moſt promiſing plantation, unleſs continual care be taken to cultivate and ſecure it. Virtue in us is grafted upon nature and the woman; the one is weak and the other is al- 104. HELOISE to ABELARD. z ways 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 Apollos hath watered, but 'tis God that gives the increaſe. Paul had planted the Goſpel among the Corinthians, by his Holy and earneſt preaching; Apollos, a zealous diſciple of that great Inaſter, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the grace of God, which their conſtant prayers implored for that church, made the endeavours of both ſucceſsful. 2 This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you are not ſhothful; yet your labours are not directed to us; your cares are waſted upon a ſet of men, whoſe thoughts are only earthly, and you refuſe to reach out your hand to ſupport thoſe who are weak and flagger- ing, in their way to heaven, and who with all their endeavours can ſcarcely preſerve themſelves from falling. You fling the pearls of the Goſpel before ſwine, when you ſpeak to thoſe who are filled with the good things of this world, and mouriſhed with the fatneſs of the earth; and you neglect the innocent ſheep, who, tender as they HELOISE to ABELARD, 105 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 ſouls would be filled with a ſenſe of your goodneſs? But why ſhould I intreat you in the name of your children? Is it poſſible I ſhould fear obtaining any thing of you, when I aſk it iſ my own name? And muſt I uſe any other prayers than my own, to prevail upon you? The St. Auſtins, Tertullians, and Jeromes, have wrote to the ‘Eudoxas, Paulas, and Mela- nias; and can you read thoſe names, though of Saints, and not remember mine 2 Can it be cri- minal for you to imitate St. Jerome, and diſcourſe with me concerning the Scripture; or Tertullian, and preach mortification; or St. Auſtin, and ex- plain 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 correſpondence lawful; and ſince you can, without giving the leafi ſcandal, ſatisfy me, why will you got? I am not only en- gaged by my yows, which might poſſibly be ſome- times neglected ; but I have a barbarous uncle, whoſe inhumanity is a ſecurity againſt any cri- minal defire, which tenderneſs and the remembrance Jº of our paſt enjoyments might inſpire. -There is: 106 HELOISE ro ABELARD. nothing than can cauſe you any fear; you need not fly to conquer. You may ſee me, hear my fighs, and be a witneſs of all my ſorrows, with- out incurring any danger, fince you can only re- lieve me with tears and words. If I have put my- ſelf into a cloiſter with reaſon, perſuade me to continue in it with devotion : You have been the occaſion all my misfortunes; you therefore muſt be the inſtrument of all my comfort. * You cannot but remember, (for what do not lovers remember?) with what pleaſure I have paſt whole days in hearing you diſcourſe. How when you were abſent 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 engage confidents : This detail per- haps 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 inore than all this, I have hated myſelf that I might love you ; I came hither to ruin myſelf in a perpetual impriſonmet, that I might make you live quiet and eaſy. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly diſengaged from the commerce of the ſenſes, could have produced ſuch effects. Vice never inſpires any thing like this, it is too : * THELOISE 'ro ABELARD. 167 much enſlaved to the body. When we love plea- ſures, we love the living and not the dead. We leave off burning with defire, for thoſe who can mo longer burn for us. This was my cruel uncle's motion; he 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 pur- poſe. 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 poſ- ſeſſing 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 matrimo- my, however honourable, ſtill bear with them a neceſſary engagement. And I was very unwilling to be neceſſitated to love always a man who per- haps would not always love me, I deſpiſed the 1 o'S HELOISE to ABELARD. 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 paſ- fion in a woman who loved you always with the utmoſt tenderneſs; and yet wiſhed to love. you more, You have very juſtly obſerved in your let- ter, that I eſteemed thoſe public engagements in- fipid, which form alliances only to be diſſolved by death, and which put life and love under the ſame unhappy 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 capti- vating 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, fortune, and employments, confider him ſingly by himſelf. 'Tis not love, but the defire of riches and honour, which makes women run into the embraces of an indolent huſband. Ambition, not affection, forms ſuch marriages. I believe indeed they may be fol- lowed with ſome honours and advantages, but I can never think that this is the way to enjoy the HELOISE to ABELARD. 109 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 targer 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 pu- miſhes them for aiming at other advantages in love than love itſelf. * - If there is any thing which may properly be called happineſs here below, I am perſuaded it is in the union of two perſons who love each other with perfect liberty, who are united 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 tranquil- lity, becauſe they enjoy content. If I 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 poſſible I ſhould not be certain of your merit? . If I could ever have doubted it, the univerſal eſteem would have made me determine in your ,” tºº 1 i 0 HELOISE. To ABELARD. favour. What country, what 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 impoſed upon them, ſhewed manifeſtly they felt ſomething 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 refift you? Your reputation, which ſo much ſoothed the vanity of our ſex; your air, your manner; , that life in your eyes which ſo admiraby expreſſed the vivacity of your mind; your converſation, with that eaſe and elegance, which gave every thing you ſpoke ſuch an agreeable and infinuating turn; in ſhort, every thing ſpoke for you : Very different from ſome mere ſcholars, who , with- all their learning, have laot 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 re- creation after your more ſerious ſtudies, are ſtill HELOISE. To ABELARD. | 1 || the entertainment and delight of performs of the beſt taſie. The ſmalleſt ſong, may the leaſt ſketch of any thing you made for me, had a thouſand beau- ties capable of making it laſt as long as 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 na- tural expreſſions which ſpoke your love, will help others to explain their paſſion, with much more advantage than what they themſelves are capable of. What rivals did your galantries of this kind oc- caſion me? How many ladies laid claim to them 2 'Twas a tribute their ſelf-love paid to their beauty. How many have I feen with fighs declare their paſſion for you, when after ſome common viſit you had made them, they chanced to be compli- mented for the Sylvia of your poems Others in deſpair and envy have reproached me, that I had no charms but what your wit beſtowed on me, mor in any thing the advantage over them, but in being beloved by you Can you believe me if I tell you, that notwithſtanding the vanity of my ſex, I thought myſef peculiarly happy in having a lover, to whom I was obliged for my charms, and took a ſecret pleaſure in being admired by a man, who when he pleaſed could raiſe his miſtreſs I l 2 HELOISE to ABELARD. º to the character of a Goddeſs? Pleaſed with your glory only, I read with delight all thoſe praiſes you offered 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 re- mains 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, ean never more be yours or mine. I loved him; my love was his crime, and the cauſe of his puniſhment. My beau- ty once charmed him; Pleaſed with each other, we paſſed our brighteſt days in tranquillity and happineſs. If that was a crime, ’tis a crime I am yet fond of, and I have no other regret, than that againſt my will I muſt neceſſarily be inno- cent. But what do I ſay ? My misfortune was to have cruel relations, whoſe malice diſturbed the calm we enjoyed : Had they been capable of the returns of reaſon, I had now been happy in the enjoyment of my dear huſband. Oh how cruel were they when their blind fury urged a villaim to ſurpriſe you in your ſleep ! Where was I? Where was your Heloiſe then 2 What Joy ſhould I have HELOISE. To ABELARD. I 13 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 ſtop- ped the hand — — — Oh! whither does the exceſs of paſſion hurry me? Here love is ſhocked, and modeſty, joined with deſpair, deprive me of words: 'Tis eloquence to be filent where no ex- preſſions can reach the greatneſs of the misfortune. But tell me whence proceeds your neglect of me fince my being profeſſed ? You know nothing mov- ed me to it but your diſgrace, nor did I give any conſent but yours. Let me hear what is the occa- fion 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 defires 2 Wretched Heloiſe? You could pleaſe when you wiſhed to avoid it; You merited incenſe, when you could remove to a diſtance the hand that offered it. But fince your heart has been ſoftened, and has yielded; ſince you have devoted and ſacrificed yourſelf, you are deſerted and forgotten. I am convinced, by ſad experience, that it is natural to avoid thoſe to whom we have been too much obliged; and that uncommon generoſity produces neglect rather than K. 1 14 HELOISE. To ABELARD. *... acknowledgment. My heart ſurrendered too ſoon, ...to gain the eſteem of the conqueror; you took it without difficulty, and give it up as eaſily. But ungrateful 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 defire of being beloved by you. When I pro- nounced my ſad vow, I then had about 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 I have offered myſelf; you had my heart, and I had yours; do not de- mand any thing back; you muſt bear with my paſſion, as a thing which of right belongs to you, and from which you can no ways be diſen- gaged. Alas! What folly is it to talk at this rate 2 I ſee nothing here but marks of the Deity, and 1 ſpeak of nothing but man! You have been the cruel occaſion of this, by your conduct: Un- faithful man! Ought you at once to break off lov. ing me? Why did you not deceive me for a while, rather than immediately abandon me? If you had given me at leaſt but ſome faint ſigns even of a dying paſſion, I myſelf had favoured the de- ception. But in vain would I flatter myſelf that ~$. HELOISE. To. ABELARD. 115 you could be conſtant; you have left me no colour of making your excuſe. I am earneſtly 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 whe loves, to write? I aſk for none of your letters filled with learning, and writ 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 mo 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 obe- dience 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 de- votion which led me to the cloiſter. Your con- ſcience is too faithful a witneſs to permit you to diſown it. Yet here I am, and here I will remain; to this place an unfortunate love and my cruel K 2 1 16 HELOISE to ABELARD. ty relations have condemned me. But if you do not continue your concern for me, if I loſe your af. fection, what have I gained by my impriſonment? what recompence can I hope for? The unhappy conſequences of a criminal conduct, and your diſ- graces, have put on me this habit of chaſtity, and not the fincere 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 reli- gious 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, covered only with the aſhes of that fire which hath conſumed us. I am here, I confeſs, a finner, but one who far from weeping for her ſins, weeps only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, endeavours only to add to them ; and who with a weakneſs unbecoming the ſtate I am in, pleaſe myſelf continually with the remem- brance of paſt actions, when it is impoſſible to renew them. Good God! what is all this I reproach myſelf for my own faults, I accuſe you for yours, and HELoíSE to ABELARD. 117 to what purpoſe ? Veiled as I am, behold in what a diſorder you have plunged me! How difficult is it to fight always for duty againſt inclination? I know what obligations this veil lays on me , but I feel more ſtrongly what power a long habi- tual paſſion has' over my heart. I am conquered by my inclination. My love 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 imagination 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 confidered I had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as it were dead and buried ; yet there riſes unexpec- tedly from the bottom of my heart a paſſion which triumphs over all theſe motions, and darkens all my reaſon and devotion. You reign in ſuch in- ward 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 de- ceive myſelf, and all the efforts I am able to make ſerve but to bind them the faſier. Oh, for pity's ſake, help a wretch to renounce her defires, her- ſelf, 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, cannot they I 18 HELOISE. To ABELARD. move you? Yield either to pity or love. If you: gratify my requeſt, I ſhall continue a religious with- out longer prophaning my calling. I am ready to humble myſelf with you to the wonderful pro- vidence of God; who does all things for our ſanc- tification, who by his grace purifies all, that is vicious and corrupt in the principle, and by, the inconceivable riches of his mercy draws us to him- ſelf 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 jealoufies and reproaches. In- deed I thought it ſomething hard, that when we had both engaged to cenſecrate ourſelves to heaven, you ſhould infift upon my doing it firſt. Does Abelard then, ſaid I, ſuſpect he ſhall fee renewed in me the example of Lot's wife, who could not forbear looking back when, 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 diſtruſtful foreſight touched me ſenſibly. I ſaid to myſelf, HELOISE. To ABELARD. 1 19 There was a time when he could rely upon my bare word, and does he now want vows to ſecure himſelf of me? What occaſion have I given him in the whole coarſe of my life to admit the leaſt ſuſpicion? I could meet him at all his aſſigna- tions, and would I decline following him to the ſeats of holineſs 2 I who have not refuſed to be a victim of pleaſure to gratify him, can he think I would refuſe to be a ſacrifice of honour to obey him? Has vice ſuch charms to well-born ſouls 2 and when we have once, drunk of the cup of fin- ners, is it with ſuch difficulty that we take the châlice of Saints? Or did you believe yourſelf a greater maſter to teach vice than 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, when 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 defire. I wiſh to heaven you had not ſuch a power over me. If you had any occaſion to fear, you would be leſs negligent. But what is there .# # - 129, HELOISE To ABELARD. for you to fear? I have done too much, and now have nothing more to do, but to triumph over your ingratitude. 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 en- tirely 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 ºthere were other men left, though I was deprived of Abelard ; And yet did I not bury myſelf alive in a nunnery, and triumph over love , at an age capable of enjoying it in its full latitude 2 'Tis to you I ſacrifice 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 oblation of my heart, my days, and my life! I am ſenſible I have dwelt too long on this head; I ought to ſpeak leſs to you of your mis- fortunes, and of my own ſufferings, for love of you. We tarniſh the luffre of our moſt beautiful actions when we applaud them ourſelves. This is * *- HELoISE to ABELARD. l 21 true, and yet there is a time when we may with decency commend 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 reflection 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 -find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard: Though I have loſt my lover, I ſtill preſerve my love. O vows : O con- vent! I have not loſt my humanity under your inexorable diſeipliné ! You have not made me marble by changing my habit: My heart is not hardened by my impriſonment; I am ſtill ſenſible to what has touched me, though alas I ought not to be ſo Without offending your commands, per- mit 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 me their advantage. Re- tirement, ſolitude 1 You will not appear terrible, # I may but ſtill know I have any place in his memory. A heart which has been ſo ſenſibly af- fected as mine, cannot ſoon be indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and haired, before we can arrive at a happy tranquillity, and we al- I. …” I, 23 HELOISE to ABELARD. ways flatter ourſelves with ſome diſtant hope, that we ſhall not be quite forgotten. Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here, to reaſe the weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I wiſh they were to me : "Teach me the maxims of divine love. 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 mothing but your verſes, which publiſhed every where our joys and our pleaſures. Now we are in the heaven 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 complaiſance in my preſent condition, as you did when we were in the world. Without changing the ardor of our affections, let us change their object; let us leave our ſongs, and fing hymns ; let us lift up our hearts to God, and have no tranſports but for his glory. I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuſe me. God has a peculiar right over the HELOISE ro ABELARD. 123 hearts of great men, which he has created. When , he pleaſes to touch them, he raviſhes them, and lets them not ſpeak nor breathe but for 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 mi- ſtreſs, cheriſh me as your child, your fifter, your wife. Confider that I ſtill love you, and yet ſtrive to avoid loving you. What a word, what a defign is this I ſhake with horror, and my heart revolts againſt what I ſay. I ſhall blott all my paper with tears—I end my long letter, wiſhing you, if you can defire it, (would to heaven I could) for ever Adieu. 124 4. r- L E T T E R III. A B E L A R D to H E LOISE. That the reader may make a right judgment on the following letter, it is proper he ſhould be informed of the condition Abelard was in when he wrote it. The Duke of Britany, whºſe ſubject he was born , jealous of the glory of France, which then ingreſſed all the moſt famous ſcholars of Europe, and being beſides acquainted with the perſecution Abe- dard had ſuffered from his enemies, had no- minated him to the Abby of St. Gildas, and by this benefaction and mark of his eſteem, engaged him to paſs the reſt of his days in his dominions. He received this favour with great joy, imagining , that by leaving France, he ſhould loſe his paſſion, and gain a new turn of mind upon eatering into his new dignity. The Abby of St. Gildas 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, ABELARD To HELOISE, 125 endeavoured in this ſolitude to eartinguiſh 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 Heloïſe: 'Tis 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 conſider Abelard when he wrote the following letter. If he ſeems by ſome paſſages in it to have begun to feel the motions of di- vine grace, they appear as yet to be only by Jtarts, and without any uniformity. Could I have imagined that a letter not writ- ten 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 misfortunes. I deſcribed with boldneſs the ſeries of my diſgraces to a friend, in order to make him leſs ſenfible of the loſs he had ſuſtained. If by this well-meaning artifice I have diſturbed you, I purpoſe here to dry up thoſe tears which the ſad deſcription occaſioned you to ſhed: I in- . tend 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 126 ABELARD to HELOISE, ſoul, which my vanity has hitherto made me con- ceål 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 affections which had befallen us, and obſerving that no change of our condition was to be expected; that thoſe pro- ſperous 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 wiſhed to find in philoſophy and religion a remedy for my diſ- grace : I ſearched out- an aſylum to ſecure me from love. I was come to the ſad experiment of mak- ing 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 promiſe 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 all weakened by thoſe reflections 1 make in order to free myſelf. The filence I am ſurrounded with makes me more ſen- fible to its impreſſions, and while I am unem- ployed with any other things, this makes itſelf the buſineſs of my whole vacation; till , after a multitude of uſeleſs endeavours, I begin to per- ABELARD To HELOISE. 127 ſuade myſelf, that 'tis a ſuperfluous trouble to firive to free myſelf; and that it is wiſdom ſuf- ficient if I can conceal from every one but you, my confuſion and weakneſs. * Aº I remove to a diſtance from your perſon, with- an intention of avoiding you as enemy; and yet I inceſſantly ſeek for you in my mind: I recall your image in my memory; and in ſuch different diſquietudes I betray and contradict myſelf. I hate you; I love you : Shame preſſes mé on all fides; I am at this moment afraid left 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, affect mine too ! You ſee the confuſion I am in, what I blame myſelf for, and what I ſuffer. Religion commands me to purſue virtue, fince I have nothing to hope for from love. But love ſtill preſerves its dominition in my fancy, and entertains itſelf with paſt pleaſures. Memory ſupplies the place of a miſtreſs. Piety and duty are not always the fruits of retirement; even in deſarts, where the dew of heaven falls not on us, we love what we ought no longer to love: The 128 ABELARD To HELOISE. paſſions, ſtirred up by ſolitude, fill thoſe regions. of death and filence; 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 motions as theſe, I had inſtructed you better. You call me your maſter ; ’tis true, you were in- truſted to my care. I ſaw you, I was earneſt to teach you vain ſciences; it coſt you your inno- cence, and me my liberty. Your uncle, who was fond of you, became therefore my enemy, and revenged himſelf on me. If now, having loſt the power of ſatisfying my paſſion, I had loſt too that of loving you, I ſhould have ſome conſo- lation. My enemies would have given me that . tranquillity, which Origen purchaſed by a crime. How miſerable am I? My misfortune does not looſe my chains, my paſſion grows furious by im- potence, and that deſire I ſtill have for you amidſt all my diſgraces, makes me more unhappy 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 was in full liberty. I continually think of you, I conti- nually 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 myſelf before thy altars, if I beſeech thee to pity me, why * ABELARD To HELOISE. 129 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 2 But that is ſtill inex- orable, becauſe my paſſion flill lives in ine; the fire is only covered over with deceitful aſhes, and cannot be extinguiſhed but by extraor- dinary 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 pro- phame your vacation with ſuch words? Why pro- voke a jealous God by a blaſphemy? I hoped, after our ſeparation, you would have changed your ſentiments; I hoped too, that God would have delivered me from the tumult of my ſenſes and that contrariety which reigns in my heart. We commonly die to the affections 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 con- tinually 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 Britany and the ſea would inſpire other thoughts; that my faſts and ſtudies would 130 ABELARD to HELOISE. by degrees eraſe you out of my heart : But in ſpite of ſevere faſts and redoubled ſtudies, in ſpite of the diſtance of three hundred miles which ſe- parates us, your image, ſuch as you deſcribe yourſelf in your veil, appears to me , and con- founds all 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; nothing can be ſucceſsful that op- poſes you. Oh I 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 confidering that a reſiſtance would ABELARD to HELOISE. 131 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 filence? Spare the recital of our aſſig- nations, and your conſtant exactneſs to them; without calling up ſuch diſturbing thoughts, I have enough to ſuffer. What great advantages would philoſophy give us over other men, if by fiudying it we could learn to govern our paſſions 2 But how humbled ought we to be when we can- not maſter them? What efforts, what relapſes, what agitations do we undergo 7 And how long are we toſt in this confuſion, unable to exert our reaſon, to poſſeſs our ſouls, or to rule our af- fections 2 What a troubleſome employment is love! and how valuable is virtue even upon confideration of our own eaſe ! Recollect your extravagancies of paſſion, gueſs at my diſtractions; number up our cares, if poſſible, our grieſs, and our inquietudes, throw theſe things out of the account, and let love have all its remaining ſoftneſs and pleaſure. How little is that ? And yet for ſuch ſhadows of en- joyments 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 gº- 132 ABELARD To HELOISE. ſackcloth and aſhes : How much happier ſhould we be , if by our humilation and tears we could make our repentance ſure? The love of pleaſure is not eradicated out of the ſoul, but by ex- traordinary efforts ; it has ſo powerful a party in our breaſts, that we find it difficult to condemn it ourſelves. What abborrence can I be ſaid to have of my fins, if the objects of them are al- ways amiable to me? How can I ſeparate from the perſon I love , the paſſion I muſt deteſt 7 Will the tears I ſhed be ſufficient to render it odious to me? I know not how it happens , there is al- ways a pleaſure in weeping for a beloved object. 'Tis difficult in our ſorrow to diſtinguiſh penitence from love. The memory 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 2 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 beginning of my guilt; your eyes, your diſcourſe, pierced my heart; and in ABELARD ro HELOISE. 133 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 fince happened. You are no longer of the world; you have renounced it : I am a reli- gious, devoted to ſolitude; ſhall we make no ad- vantage of our condition ? Would you deſtroy my piety in its infant ſtate 7 Would you have me for- fake 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 2 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 ſorrows and its own. Oh what a loſs have I ſuſtained, when I confider your con- ſtancy! What pleaſures have I miſſed enjoying! I ought not to confeſs this weakneſs to you; I am f enfible I commit a fault; if I could have ſhewed more firmneſs of mind, I ſhould perhaps have pro- voked your reſentment againſt me, and your anger might work that effect in you which your virtue could not. If in the world I publiſhed my weakneſs 134 ABELARD to HELOISE, 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 join 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 en- tirely uſeleſs. The Goſpel is a language I do not underſtand when it oppoſes my paſſion. Thoſe 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 deſ- perate paſſion. Void of all reliſh for virtue, any concern for my condition, or any application to my ſtudies, I am continually preſent by my imag- ination where I ought not to be, and I find I have no power, when I would at any time cor- rect it. I feel a perpetual ſtrife between my in- clination and my duty. I find myſelf entirely a diſtracted lover; unquiet in the midſt of filence, and reſtleſs in this abode of peace and repoſe. How ſhameful is ſuch a condition 1 Conſider me no more, I entreat you, as a ABELARD to HELOISE. 135 founder, or any great perſonage ; your encomiums do but ill agree with ſuch multiplied weakneſſes. I am a miſerable finner, proſtrate before my judge ; and with my face preſſed to the earth, I mix my tears and fighs in the duff, when the beams of grace and reaſon elighten me. Come, ſee me in this poſture, and ſollicit 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 ſeparauðſ' ſºme, and force from me thoſe fighs, 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 know 2 But ra- ther withdraw yourſelf, and contribute to my ſal- vation, 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 you are appropriated; I will never op- poſe ſo pious a defign. 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 choices 136 ABELARD to HELOISE. make your virtue a ſpectacle worthy men and an- gels: Be humble among your children, aſſiduous in your choir, exact in your diſcipline, diligent in your reading; make even your recreations uſe- ful. Have you purchaſed your vocation at ſo ſlight a rate, as that you ſhould not turn it to the beſt advantage 2 Since you have permitted yourſelf to be abuſed by falſe doctrine, and criminal in- ſtructions, reſiſt not thoſe good counſels which grace and religion inſpire me with. Y', ruit confeſs to you, I have thought myſelf hitherto an abler maſter to inſtill 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 finners 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 mature 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 ſhew- ed to take the religious habit : Bear therefore with courage the croſs which you have taken up ſo re- ſolutely. Drink of the chalice of Saints, even to the bottom, without turning your eyes with uncertainty º ABELARD To HELOISE. 137 upon me. Let me remove far from you, and obey the Apoſtle who hath ſaid, Fly. You entreat 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 glory, and commands that her children ſhould be induced to the practice of virtue by vir- tuous means. When we have approached God af- ter an unblameable manner, we may them with boldneſs invite others to him. But to forget He- loiſe, to ſee her no more , is what heaven de- mands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, to loſe him, even in idea , is what heaven enjoins Heloiſe. To forget, in the caſe of love, is the moſt neceſſary penitence, and the moſt difficult. It is eaſy to recount our faults; how many, through indiſcretion, have made them- ſelves a ſecond pleaſure of this, inſtead of con- feſſing them with humility. The only way to re- turn to God is , by neglecting the creature which we have adored, and adoring God who's we have neglected. This may appear harſh, but it muſt be done if we would be ſaved. M 138 ABELAR” to HELOISE. To make it more eaſy, obſerve why I preſſed ..you to your vow before I took mine; and pardon my fincerity, and the defign I have of meriting your neglect and hatred, if I conceal nothing from you of the particulars you inquire after. When I ſaw myſelf too oppreſſed with my misfortune, my impotency made me jealous, and I confidered 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 de- fects; and being tormented with fear from my own example, I imagined your 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 con- ſequences. I was defirous to put myſelf out of a poſſibility of doubting of you. I was very urgent to perſuade you, that decency required you ſhould withdraw from the envious eyes of the world ; that modeſty, and our friendſhip, demanded it; may, that your own ſafety obliged you to it; and that after ſuch a revenge taken upon me, you could expect to be ſecure no where but in a çon Vent, * I will do you juſtice, you were very eaſily per- ſuaded to it. My jealouſy ſecretly triumphed over ABELARD To HELOISE. 139 your innocent compliance : and yet, triumphant as I was, I yielded you up to God with an un- willing heart. I ſtill kept my gift as much as was poſſible, and only parted with it that I might ef- fectually put it out of the power of men. I did not perſuade you to religion out of any regard to your happineſs, but condemned you to it; like an enemy who deſtroys what he cannot carry off. And yet you heard my diſcourſes 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 confidering that you did not continue long in the world after my diſ- grace, and that you would return into it no In Ores * But ſtill this was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of maintaining any conſtant reſo- lutions, unleſs they were forced by the neceſſity of fixed vows. I 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 apprehenfions have you freed me? Religion and piety keep a ſtrict guard round your grates and high walls. What a M 2 * 140 ABELARD To HELOISE. 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 mention it then, a brightneſs in your beauty which I had never ob- ſerved before. Whether it was the bloom of a ri- fing virtue, or an anticipation of that great loſs I was going to ſuffer, I was not curious in examining the cauſe, but only haſtened your being profeſſed. 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 brib- ed, and concealed from you , by my directions, all their ſcruples and diſguſts. I omitted nothing, either little or great. And if you had eſcaped all my ſnares, I myſelf would not have retired: I was reſolved to follow you every where. This ſhadow of myſelf would always have purſued your ſteps, and continually occaſioned either your confuſion or fear, which would have been a ſenſible gratifi- cation 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 pro- nounce diſtinctly thoſe fatal words which for ever ABELARD To HELOISE. 141 ſeparated you from all men. "Till then your beauty and youth ſeemed to oppoſe my deſign, and to threathen 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 ab- ſolute -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 wo- man 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, perfidiouſneſs, murder. A love which was ſo like to hat- red, ought to provoke the utmoſt contempt and anger. It is fit you ſhould know that the very moment, when I was convinced of your being entirely de- voted to me, when 1 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 affec- tion; and I confidered that by your holy eſpouſals 142 ABELARD to HELOISE, * 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 tran- quillity 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. He who ſees the dephts and ſe- crets of all men's hearts, ſaw mine did not agree with my words. Neceſſity and deſpair were the ſprings of this proceeding. Thus I inadvertently offered an inſult to heaven, rather than a ſacrifice. God rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my puniſhment, 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, fills me \ ABELARD To HELOISE. 143 with horror and trembling. Is this a ſtate of re- probation ? Or are theſe the conſequences of a long drunkenneſs in prophane love 2 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 2 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 ſometimes diſturbed the vacations 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 farewel, fixed upon the croſs. It was above ſix months before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive any meſſage from you. I admired this filence, which I durſt not blame, and could 144 ABELARD to HELOISE. *. 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 with- drawn 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 ſacred places. Our amours have been matter of ſcandal 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 fincere! Let us repair, 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 con- found all who would imitate our guilt; let us take the part of God againſt ourſelves, and by ſo doing prevent his judgment. Our former irregu- larities require tears, ſhame, and forrow to ex- piate them. Let us offer up theſe ſacrifices from our hearts; let us bluſh, let us weep. If in theſe weak beginnings, Lord, our heart is not entirely ABELARD To HELOISE. 145 thine, let it at leaſt be made ſenſible that it ought to be ſo I Deliver yourſelf, Heloiſe, from the ſhameful remains of a paſſion which has taken too deep root. Remember that the leafi thought for any other than God is an adultery. If you could ſee me here with my meager face, and melancholy air, fur- rounded with 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 reformation; what would you ſay of my baſe fights, and of thoſe unprofitable tears which deceive theſe credulous men. Alas! I am hum- bled 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 the cloiſter, for it is the dwelling of Saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Chriſt Jelus : He will lighten them, and béar them with you, if you bear them with humility. --- --- N * ABELARD To HELOISE. Without growing ſevere to a paſſion which yet poſſeſſes you, learn from your own miſery to ſuc- cour your weak fifters ; pity them upon conſidera- tion 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; iament before 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 ſenfible of paſſion and love. If during your abode in the world, your ſoul has acquired 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 pleaſure; de- mand 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 fin. You call me your Father ; before I had any claim to this title, I deſerved that of Parricide. I am your Brother, but 'tis the * - ABELARD Te HELOISE. 147 affinity of our crimes that has purchaſed me that diſtinction. I am called your Huſband, but it is after a public ſcandal. If you have abuſed the ſanctity of ſo many venerable Rames on the ſuper- ſcription of your letter, to do me honour, and flatter your own paſſion, blot them out, and place in their ſtead thoſe of a Murderer, a Villain, an Enemy, who has conſpired againſt your honour, troubled your quiet, 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 courſe. This is the idea you ought to have of a fugi- tive, 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 underſtanding. 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. Re- N 2. $48 ABELARD to HELOISE. member 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 puniſh- ments. But Providence has turned off this blow, and our ſhipwreck has thrown us into a haven. There are ſome whom the mňrcy of God ſaves by afflictions. Let my ſalvation be the fruit of our prayers | Let me owe it to your tears or exem- plary 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 Heloiſe tru- ly, is to leave her entirely to that quiet which retirement and virtue afford. I have reſolved it; this letter ſhall be my laſt fault. Adieu. If I die here, I will 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 horror 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 ABELARD to HELOISE. . .49 . . . * * : ******* * * * *. * 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. tº, L E T T E R IV. HELoise to ABELARD. In the following letter the paſſion of Heloiſe breaks out with more violence than ever. That which ſhe had received from Abelard, inſtead of fortifying her reſolutions, ſerved only to revive in her memory all their paſt endear- ments and misfortunes. With this impreſſion, Jhe writes again to her huſband; and appears now, not ſo much in the character of a re- ligious, ſtriving with the remains of her for- mer weakneſs, as in that of an unhappy too- man abandoned to all the tranſports of love and deſpair. *—. r To Abelard her well-beloved in Chriſt Jeſus, from Heloiſe 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 misfor- tunes, I hoped to find nothing in it befides argu- ments of comfort. But how ingenious are lovers in * HELOISE ro ABELARD. 151 tormenting themſelves Judge of the exquiſite ſen- ſibility and force of my love, by that which cau- ſes the grief of my ſoul. I was diſturbed at the ſuperſcription of your letter; Why did you place the name of Heloiſe 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 sº not look for my own, which I had much rather, if poſſible, forget, as being the cauſe of your misfortune. The rules of decorum, and the cha- racter of maſter and director which you have over me, oppoſed that ceremonious manner of ad- dreſſing me; and love commanded you to baniſh it: Alas! you know all this but too well. Did you write thus to me before cruel fortune had ruined my happineſs? I ſee your heart has deſerted me, and you have made greater advances 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 ad- vice. Will 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 let- ter, thoſe terrible images you draw of your death. quite diſtract me. Cruel Abelard; you ought to 152 HELOISE to ABELARD. have ſtopped my tears, and you make them flow. You ought to have quieted the diſorder of my heart, 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 2 And how could you deſcribe - them to me? Did not the apprehenſion of cauſing my preſent death make the pen drop from your hand 7 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 puniſhment, 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 power- ful exhortations againſt that great criſis , which ſhakes the moſt reſolute and confirmed minds 2 Is it not your part to receive my laſt fighs , taka care of my funeral, and give an account of me manners and fdyith ? Who but you can recommen %, HELOISE. To ABELARD. 153 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 2 We expect theſe pious offices from your paternal charity. After this you will be free from thoſe diſquietudes which now moleſt you, and you will quit life with more eaſe whenever 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 2 Muff we aggra- vate our ſorrows 2 Our life here is but a languiſh- ing death; will you haſten it? Our preſent diſ- graces are ſufficient to employ our thoughts con- tinually, and ſhall we ſeek for new arguments of grief in futurities 2 How void of reaſon are men? ſaid Seneca, to make diſtant evils preſent by re- flection, and to take pains before death to loſe all the comforts of life : When you have finiſhed your courſe here be- low, you ſay it is your defire 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 154 HELOISE. To ABELARD. - . 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. Cam ſo heavy a misfortune leave me a moment's quiet? Can my feeble reaſon refift ſuch powerful 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, or how bear up againſt my grief? I ſhould be more ur- gent to follow you, than to pay you the ſad ce- remonies of burial. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have reſolved to live : if you are raviſhed from me, what uſe can I make of my miſerable days 2 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 ſepa- ration, I feel all the pangs of death; what ſhall I be then, if I ſhould ſee this dreadful hour? For- bear therefore to infuſe into my mind ſuch mourn- ful thoughts, if not for love, at leaſt for pity. You defire me to give myſelf up to my duty, and to be wholly God’s to whom I am conſe- HELOISE. To ABELARD. 155 crated. How can I do that, when you frighten me with apprehenfions that continually poſſeſs my mind day and night 2 When an evil threatens us, and it is impoſſible 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? . . . . . : *r 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 2 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 Iive for me, and I dare not even flatter myſelf with the hopes that I ſhall ever enjoy a fight of you more! This is the greateſt of my afflictions : Mercileſs fortune 1 haſt thou not perſecuted me enough 2 Thou doſt not give me any reſpite; thou haſt all thy vengeance upon me, and reſerved thy- ſelf nothing whereby thou may’ſ appear terrible to others. Thou haſt wearied thyſelf in tormenting me, and others have nothing now to fear from thy anger. But to what purpoſe doſt thou ſtill arm thyſelf againſt me 2 The wounds I have already received leave no room for new ones. Why can- 156 HELOISE to ABELARD. * *; not I urge thee to kill me? Or doſt thou fear, amidſt the numerous torments thou heapeſt on me, doff thou fear that ſuch a firoke would de- liver me from all ? therefore thou preſerveſt me me from death, in order to make me die every moment. Dear Abelard, pity my deſpair Was ever any thing ſo miſerable ! The higher you raiſed me above other women who envied me your love, the more ſenſible am I now of the loſs of your heart. I was exalted to the top of happineſs, only that I might have a more terrible fall. Nothing eould formerly be compared to my pleaſures, and nºthing now can equal my miſery. My glory once raiſed the envy of my rivals; my preſent wretched- meſs moves the compaſſion of all that ſee me. My, fortune has been always in extremes, ſhe has heaped on me her moſt delightful favours, that ſhe might load me with the greateſt of her afflic- tions. Ingenious in tormenting me, ſhe has made the memory of the joys I have loſt, an inexhauſti- ble ſpring of my tears. Love, which poſſeſt was her greateſt gift, being taken away, occaſions all my ſorrow. In ſhort, her malice has entirely ſuc- ceeded, and I find my preſent afflictions propor- tionably bitter as the tranſports which charmed me were ſweet. -* * HELOISE to ABELARD. 157 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 ourſelves up to the enjoiment of a criminal love, nothing oppoſed our vicious pleaſures. But ſcarce had we retrenched what was unlawful in our paſ- fion, and taken refuge in marriage againſt that remorſe which might have purſued us, but the whole wrath of heaven fell on us in all its weight. But how barbarous was your puniſhment . The very remembrance makes me ſhake with horror. Could an outrageous huſband make a villain ſuf- fer more, that had diſhonoured his bed 7 Ah 1 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 puniſh- ment which ought not to fall on any but an adul- Yerous lover ? Befides, we were ſeparated; you were buſy in your exerciſes, and inſtructed a learn- ed auditory in myſteries, which the greateſt geniu- ſes 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 fometimes meditating on holy leſſons, to which I endeavoured to apply myſelf In this very junc- ture you became the victim of the moſt unhappy 158 . HELOISE to ABELARD. love. You alone expiated the crime common to us both : You only were puniſhed, though both of us were guilty. You, who were leaſt ſo , was the object of the whole vengeance of a barbarous man. But why ſhould I rave at your aſſaſſins 7 I, wretched I, have ruined you; I have been the original of all yeur misfortunes 1 Good heaven why was I born to be the occaſion of ſo tragical an accident 3 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 inſenſi- bility of heart, againſt all our charms. Hearken, my Son, ſaid formerly the wiſeſt of men) attend and keep my inſtructions; if a beautiful wo- man 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 wo- man who threw down the firſt man from that glorious sondition in which heaven. . had placed him. She who was created in order to partake of his happineſs, was the ſole cauſe of his ruin. How HELOISE to ABELARD. 1.59 bright had been thy glory, Sampſon, if thy heart had been as firm againſt the charms of Dali- lah, as againſt the weapons of the Philiſtinesſ A woman diſarmed and betrayed thee, who hadā been a glorious conqueror of armies. Thou ſaw'ſt thyſelf delivered into the hands of thy enemies; thou waft deprived of thy eyes, thoſe inlets of love into thy ſoul : Diſtracted and deſpairing didſt thou die, without any conſolation but that of in- volving thy enemies in thy deſtruction. Solomon, that he might pleaſe women, forſook the care of pleafing God. That King, whoſe wiſdom Princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God had choſe to build him a temple, abondoned the worſhip of thoſe very altars he had defended, and proceeded to ſuch a pitch of folly as even to burn incenſe to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife : What temptations' did he not bear? The evil ſpirit who had declared himſelf his perſecutor, employed a woman as an inſtru- ment to ſhake his conſtancy. And the ſame evil ſpirit made Heloiſe an inſtrument to ruin Abe- lard All the poor- comfort I have is , that I am not the voluntary cauſe of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you ; but my conſtancy and love have been deſiructive to you. If I have com- 16o HELOISE. To ABEL ARD. º, mitted 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 you, even at the ex- pence of my virtue, and therefore deſerve thoſe pains I feel. My guilty tranſports 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 defired it, not to believe it immediately. I endeavoured at nothing but con- vincing you of my utmoſt paſſion. I made no uſe of thoſe defences of diſdain and honour; thoſe enemies of pleaſure, which tyranniſe 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 confideration had been able to ſtop me, it would have been without doubt the intereſt of my love. I feared left having nothing further for you to deſire, your paſſion might become languld , and you might ſeek for new pleaſures in ſome new conqueſt. But it was eaſy for you to cure me of a ſuſpicion ſo oppoſite to my own inclination. I ** i. HELoISE to ABELARD. 161 ought to have foreſeen other more certain evils; and to have conſidered that the idea of loft enjoy- ments 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, which yet I think of with delight? At leaſt I will 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 our enemies has made you ſuffer. I will endeavour by that means to ſatisfy you at leaſt, if I cannot appeaſe an angry God. For to ſhew you what a deplorable condition I 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 prepared for you. My re- pinings kindle the divine wrath, when I ſhould endeavour to draw down mercy. In order to expiate a crime, ’tis not ſufficient that we bear the puniſhment; whatever we ſuffer is accounted as nothing, if the paſſions ſtill con- tinue, and the heart is inflamed with the ſame deſires. 'Tis an eaſy matter to confeſs a weakneſs, and to inflict ſome puniſhment upon ourſelves; O 16.2 HELOISE. To ABELARD. but 'tis the laſt violence to our nature to extinguiſh the memory of pleaſures, which by a ſweet habit have gained abſolute poſſeſſion of our minds. How many perſons do we obſerve who make an out- ward confeſſion of their faults, yet, far from being afflicted for them, take a new pleaſure in relating them. Bitterneſs of heart ought to accompany the confeſſion of the mouth, yet that very rarely hap- pens. I, who have experienced ſo many 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 poſſible, by recollecting them in my memory. Whatever 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 greateſt diſturbances, I cannot avoid theſe illuſions my heart entertains. I think I am ſtill with my dear Abelard. I ſee hini, 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 witneſs of the bloody enterpriſe of your enemies; I oppoſe their fury; I fill our apartment with fearful cries, and in the moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before HELOISE to ABELARD. 163 the altar I carry with me the memory of our guilty loves. They are my whole bufineſs; and, far from lamenting for having been ſeduced, I figh for hav- ing 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 fighs betray me; and your name is continually in my mouth. When I 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 has driven you into the haven. God, who ſeemed to lay his hand heavily upon you, ſought only to help you ; He is a father chaſtifing, and not at enemy reven- ging; a whiſe 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 refift thoſe fires which love kindles in a young heart. O 2 164 HELOISE. To ABELARD, our ſex is nothing but weakneſs, and I have the greater difficulty to defend myſelf, becauſe the enemy that attacks me pleaſes me; 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 intruſted to my care. All who are about me ad- mire my virtue; but could their eyes penetrate in- to my heart, what would they not diſcover ? My paſſions there are in a rebellion; I preſide 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 be- fore God, from whoſe all-ſeeing eye mothing is hid, and who views, through all their földings, the ſecrets of all hearts. I cannot eſcape his diſ- covery. And yet it is a great deal to me to main- tain even this apperance of virtue. This trouble- ſome hypocriſy is in ſome ſort commendable. 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 conduct. With my heart full of the love of man, I exhort them at leaſt to love only God : Charmed with the pomp of worldly pleaſures, I endeavour to HELOISE. To ABELARD. 165 ſhew them that they are all deceit and vanity. I flave juſt, ſtrength enough to conceal from them my inclinations, and I look upon that as a powerful effect of grace. If it is not ſufficient to make me embrace virtue, ’tis enough to keep me from committing fin. 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 feat more the offending a man, than the provoking God, and ſtudy it. to pleaſe him than you. Yes, 'twas your command only, and not a fincere vo- ‘cation, as is imagined, that ſhut me up in theſe cloiſters. I ſought to give you eaſe, and not to ſanctify myſelf. How unhappy am I? 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 ſorrows ; and notwithſtand- ing 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 your- *- y 166 HELOISE to ABELARD. ſelf I was wholly taken up with my duty, yet I had no bufineſs 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 us, and conceals from us wounds that are ill cured. A ſeducer flatters us, and at the ſame time aims at our deſtruction. A fincere friend diſguiſes no- thing from us, and far from paſſing a light hand over the wound, makes us feel it the more intenſe- ly, by applying remedies. Why do you not deal after this manner with me? Will you be eſteemed 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 re- probate as well as the elect may lay claim to it. - An artful impoſtor may by his addreſs gain more admiration, than the true zeal of a Saint. HELOISE to ABELARD 167 The heart of man is a labyrinth whoſe wind- ings 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 defire 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 wholeſome remonſtrances ! Be rather fearful than confident of my ſalvation; ſay our virtue is found- ed upon weakneſs, and that thoſe only will be crowned who have fought with the greateſt Diffi- culties : 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 off, 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 vic- torious. I ſeek not to conquer, out of fear leſt I ſhould be overcome. Happy enough, If I can eſ- cape 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 it. Adieu. * 168 L E T T E R v. H E L O IS E To A B E L A R D . Heloïſe had been dangerouſly ill at the convent of the Paraclete. Immediately upon her re- covery, ſhe wrote this letter to Abelard. She ſeems now to have diſengaged herſelf from him, and to have reſolved to think of no- thing but repentance; yet diſcovers ſome emotions, which make it doubtful whether devotion had entirely triumpked over her paſſion. DEAR Abelard, you expect perhaps that I ſhould accuſe you of negligence. You have not anſwered my laſt letter, and thanks to heaven, in the con- dition I now am , 'tis a happineſs to me that you ſhew ſo much inſenſibility for the fatal paſſion which had engaged me io you; at laſt, Abelard, you have loſt Heloiſe, you have loſt Heloiſe for ever. Notwithſtanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but you only, and to be enter- tained with nothing but you, I have baniſhed you from my thoughts, I have forgot you. Thou HELOISE. To ABEL ARD. 169 charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou wilt no more be my happineſs Dear image of Abelard thou wilt no more follow me every where, I will no more remember thee. O celeb- rated merit of a man, who in ſpite of his enemies, is the wonder of his agel O enchanting pleaſures to which Heloiſe entirely reſigned herſelf, you, you have been my tormentors. I confeſs, Abelard, without a bluſh, my infidelity : Let my incon- ſtancy teach the world that there is no depend- ing upon the promiſes of women; they are all ſubject to change. This troubles you, Abelard; this news without doubt ſurpriſes you ; you could never imagine Heloiſe 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 diſ- cover to you 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 inconſtancy, and will pray this rival. to fix it : By this you may judge that 'tis God alone that takes Heloiſe from you. Yes, my dear Abelard, he gives my mind that tranquillity which a quick remembrance of our misfortunes would mot ſuffer me to enjoy. Juſt heaven! what other P 17o HELOISE. To ABELARD. rival could take me from you? Could you ima- gine it poſſible for any mortal to blot you from my heart? Could you think me guilty of ſacrifi- cing the virtuous and learned Abelard 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 io ac- compliſh ſo great an end; I will tell you, and you will wonder at the ſecret ways of Providence. Some few days after you ſent me your laſt letter I fell dangerouſly ill, the phyſician gave me over; and I expected certain death. Then it was, that my paſſion, which always, before, ſeemed innocent, appeared 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 con- fidered as at a diſiance, now preſented itſelf to Ine ſuch as it appears to finners. I began to dread the wrath of God, now I was going to experience it; and I repented I had made no better uſe of his grace. Thoſe tender letters I have wrote to you, and thoſe paſſionate converſations I have had with you, gave me as mueh pain now , as they formerly did pleaſure. Ah! miſerable Heloiſe, ſaid I, if it is a crime to give one's ſelf up to ſuch ſoft tranſports; and if, after this life is ^. * .* * HELOISE to ABELARD. 171 ended, puniſhment certainly follows them, why didſt thou not reſiſt ſo dangerous an inclination? Think on the tortures that are prepared for thee; conſider with terror that ſtore of torments, and recollect at the ſame time thoſe pleaſures which thy deluded ſoul thought ſo entrancing. Ah, pur- ſued I, doſt thou not almoſt deſpair for having rioted in ſuch falſe pleaſures 2 In ſhort, Abelard, imagine all the remorſe of mind I ſuffered, and you will not be aſtoniſhed at my change. \ Solitude is inſupportable to a mind which is not eaſy; its troubles increaſe in the midſt of filence, and retirement heightens then. Since I have been ſkut 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 fighing. Inſtead of fulfilling God’s merciful deſign upon me, I have offended him ; I have looked upon this ſacred re- fuge, like a frightful priſon, and have borne, with unwillingneſs the yoke of the Lord. Inſtead of ſanctifying myſelf by a life of penitence, 1 have confirmed my reprobation. What a fatal wander- ing ! But, Abelard, I have torm off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon the P 2 172 HELOISE. To ABELARD. emotions which I have felt, I have made myſelf worthy of your eſteem. You are no more that amorous Abelard, who , to gain a private con- verſation with me by might, uſed inceſſantly to contrive new ways to deceive the vigilance of our obſervers. The misfortune 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 ſub- mit to this neceſſity willingly. I indeed, more tender than you, and more ſenſible of ſoft plea- ſures, bore this misfortune with extreme impa- tience. You have heard my exclamations againſt your enemies. You have - feen my whole reſent- ment in thoſe letters I wrote to you. "Twas this without doubt which deprived me of the eſteem of my Abelard : You were alarmed at my tranſ- ports, and if you will confeſs the truth, you perhaps deſpaired of my ſalvation. You could not foreſee that Heloiſe would conquer ſo reigning a paſſion; but you have been deceived, Abelard ; my weakneſs, when ſupported by grace, hath not hindered me from obtaining a compleat victory. Refore me then to your good opinion; your own piety ought to ſolicit you to this. - But what ſecret trouble riſes in my ſoul, what HELOISE to ABELARD. 173 unthought-of emotion oppoſes the reſolution I have formed of fighing no more for Abelard? Juſt heaven I have I not yet triumphed over my love? Unhappy Heloiſe! as long as thou draweſi a breath, it is decreed thou muſt love Abelard ; weep, unfortunate wretch that thou art, thou never hadſt a more juſt occaſion. Now I ought to die with grief; Grace had overtaken me, and l had promiſed to be faithful to it, but I 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 2 Have 1 not tir- ed out his forgiveneſs? I began to offend him from the moment I firſt ſaw Abelard; an unhappy ſympathy engaged us both in a criminal com- merce; and God raiſed us up an enemy to ſe- parate us. I lament and hate the misſortune 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 myſelf to extirpate my paſſion. How much better were it entirely to for- get the object of it, than to preſerve the memory of it, ſo fatal to the quiet of my life, and ſalva- tion? Great God! Shall Abelard always poſſeſs my thoughts; can I never free myſelf from thoſe ~". 174 HELOISE to ABELARD. *~ chains which 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 more endeavour, by the relation of thoſe pleaſures, our newborn paſſion gave us, to awa- ken that criminal fondneſs you may have ſor me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the names of lover and huſband, 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 deuland nothing of you but ſpiritual advice 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 filent, without a crime. When I was poſſeſſed with ſo violent a love, and preſ- ſed you ſo earneſtly to write to me, how many letters did I ſend you before I could obtain one from you? You denied me in my miſery the g *. HELOISE. To ABELARD. 175 only comfort which was left me, becauſe you thought it permicious. You endeavoured by ſe- verites to force me to forget you ; but now you have nothing to fear. A lucky diſeaſe, which Pro- vidence ſeemed to have chaſtiſed me with for my ſanctification, hath doue 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. What fears, what uneaſineſs have we been obli- ged to ſuffer No, Lord , there is no pleaſure upon earth, but that which virtue gives . The heart amidſt alſ worldly delights feels a ſting; ’tis uneaſy, and reſtleſs till fixed on thee. What have I not ſuf- fered, Abelard, while I kept alive in my retire- ment thoſe fires which ruined me in the world 2 I ſaw with horror the walls which ſurround me, the hours ſeemed as long years. I repented a thouſand times the having buried myſelf here. But fince grace has opened my eyes all the ſcene is changed. Solitude looks charming, and the tran- quillity which I behold here enters my very heart. In the ſatisfaction of doing my duty I feel a plea- fure , above all that riches, pomp or ſenſuality could afford. My quiet has indeed coſt me dear, I 176 HELOISE. To ABELARD. have bought it even at the price of my love, I have offered a violent ſacrifice, and which ſeem- ed 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; I 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 me for delaying ſo long to write you any news : My illneſs muſt excuſe that, l omit no opportunities of giving you marks of my remem- brance. I thank you for the uneaſineſs you ſay my ſilence cauſed you, and the kind fears you ex- preſs concerning my health. Yours , you tell me, is but weakly , and you thought lately you ſhould have died. With what indifference, cruel man, do you acquaint me with a thing ſo cer- tain to afflict me 7 I told you in my former letter how unhappy I Thould be if you died; and if you loved me, you would moderate the rigour of your HELOISE. To ABELARD. 177 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 defire us not to forget you in our prayers. Ah , dear Abelard, you may depend upon the zeal of this ſociety, 'tis devoted to you, and you cannot juſtly charge it with forget- fulneſs. You are our father, we your children; You are our guide, and we reſign ourſelves with aſſurance in your piety. You command, we obey ; we faithfully execute what you have prudently directed. We impoſe no penance on ourſelves but what you recommend, left we ſhould rather fol- low 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 ºne, that you have heard that ſome of our fiſters 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 2 Do fathers conſult the inclination of their children when they ſettle them? Are not intereſt and policy their only rules? This is the reaſon that monaſteries are of. ten filled with thoſe who are a ſcandal to them. But I conjure you to tell me what are the irre- 178 HELOISE. To ABELARD. gularities you have heard of , and to teach me a proper remedy for them. I have not yet obſerved that looſeneſs you mention; when 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 unhappineſs, and wiſh for death as the end of a troubleſome life. Is it poſſible a genius ſo great as yours ſhould never get above his paſt misfortunes 3 What would the world ſay ſhould they read your letters as I do? Would they confider the noble motive of your retirement, or not rather think you had ſhut you ſelf 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 ſoftneſs of a worldly life, if they ſhould ſee you ſecretly a ſlave to your paſſions, and ſen- , fible of all thoſe weakneſſes from which your rules can ſecure them 2 This Abelard they ſo much admire, this great perſonage who 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 misfortunes; caſt your eyes upon me, and admire my reſolution of ſhutting jº. HELOISE to ABELARD. 179 myſelf up by your example. I was young when we were ſeparated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me)-worthy of any Gent- leman's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abe- lard 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 becauſe you were leſs powerful I became leſs re- ſerved. Ah, if you had loved with delicacy, the oaths I made . *he in auſpui tº I accomp aimed 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 paſ- ſ: 2n , than-after that cruel revenge upon you. Let me ſee no more in your letters, dear Abe- lard, ſuch murmurs againſt fortune; you are not the only one ſhe has perſecuted, and you ought to forget her outrages. What a ſhame it is for a philoſopher not to be comforted for an accident which might happen to any man. Govern your- ſelf by my example. I was born with violent paſ- 18O HELoISE to ABELARD. .# ſions; I daily ſtrive with the moſt tender emo- tions, - and glory in triumphing and ſubjecting them to reaſon : Muſt a weak mind fortify one that is ſo much ſuperior? But whither am I tranſ- ported ? Is this diſcourſe directed to my dear Abe- lard 2 One that practiſes all thoſe virtues he teaches 2 If you complain of fortune, ’tis not ſo much that you feel her ſtrokes, as that you can- not ſhew your enemies how much to blame they were in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, Abelard, to exhauſt their malice, and continue to charm your auditors. Diſcover thoſe treaſures of learning he ever, ſeems to have reſerved for you; your enemies, ſtruck with the ſplendor of your reaſoning, will do you juſtice. How hap- py ſhould I be, could I ſee all the world as en- tirely perſuaded of your probity as I am. Your, learning is allowed by all the world; your grea- teſt enemies confeſs you are ignorant of nothing that the mind of man is capable of knowing. My dear huſband 1 (this is, the laſt time I ſhall uſe that expreſſion) ſhall I never ſee you again 2 Shall I never have the pleaſure of embracing you before death? What doſt thou ſay, wretched He- loiſe ? doſt thou know what thou deſireſt ? Canſt thou behold thoſe lively eyes without recollecting HELOISE to ABELARD. 181 thoſe amorous glances which have been ſo fatal to thee? Canfi thou view that majeſtic air of Abe- lard, without entertaining a jealouſy of every one that ſees ſo charming a man? that mouth which cannot be looked upon withhout defire; 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, Heloiſe, what will not his preſence do? What deſires will it not ex- cite in thy ſoul? How will it be poſſible for thee to keep the reaſon ai the fight 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 Heloiſe, who dares not without trembling think of you by day, reſigns herſelf entirely to the pleaſure of hearing you, and ſpeak- ing to you. I ſee you, Abelard, and glut my eyes with the fight; ſometimes you entertain me with the ſtory of your ſecret troubles and grievances, and create in me a ſenſible ſorrow , ſometimes, forgetting the perpetual obſtacles to our deſires, you preſs me to make you happy, and I eaſily yield to your tranſports. Sleep gives you what your enemies' rage has deprived you ,' * 182 | HELOISE to ABELARD. of ; and our ſouls, animated with the ſame paſ- fion, are ſenſible of the ſame pleaſure. But, oh! You delightful illuſions, ſoft errors, how ſoon do you vaniſh away ! At my awaking I open my eyes and 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 2 But do you, Abelard, never ſee He- loiſe in your ſleep? How does ſhe appear to you ? Do you entertain her with the ſame tender lam- guage as formerly , when Fulbert committed her to your care ? When yon awake, are you pleaſed or ſorry? Pardon me, Abelard, pardom a miſtaken lover. I moſt no more expect that vivacity from you, which once animated all your actions. 'Tis no more time to require from you a perfect cor- reſpondence of defires. We have bound ourſelves to ſevere auſterities, and muſt follow them, let them coſt us ever ſo dear. Let us think of our duties in theſe rigours, and make a good uſe of that neceſſity which keeps us feparate. You Abe- lard, will happily finiſh your courſe, your de- ſires and ambitions will be no obſtacle to your ſalvation. Heloiſe only muſt lament; ſhe only muſt weep, without being certain whether' all her tears will be available or not to her ſalvation. HELOISE to ABELARD. 183 I had like to have ended my letter without acquainting you with what happened here a few days ago. A young nun, who was one of thoſe who are forced to take up with a convent without any examination whether it will ſuit with their tempers or not, is, by a ſtratagem I know no- thing 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 con- ceal the matter. Ah Abelard l if you were near us theſe diſorders would not happen. All the fiſters, 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 would 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 ſhews you I am ſtill engaged in a deep paſſion for you, though at the beginning of it I deſigned to perſuade you of the contrary, I am ſenſible of the motions both of grace and paſ- fion, and by turns yield to each. Have pity, Abe- 184 HELOISE to ABELARD. lard, of the condition to which you have brought me, and make in ſome meaſure the latter days of my life as quiet, as the firfi have been uneaſy and diſturbed. 185 L E T T E R VI. A B E L A R D To H E L O IS E. Abelard having at laſt conquered the remains of his unhappy paſſion, had determined to put an end to ſo dangerous a correſpondence as that between Heloïſe and himſelf. The foſſ- lowing letter therefore, though written with no leſs concern than his former, is free from mixtures of a worldly paſſion, and is full of the warmeſ: ſentiments of piety, and the moſt moving eachortations. WRITE no more to me? Heloiſe; write no more to me; ’tis time to end a commerce which makes our mortifications of no advaantage to us. We retired from the world to ſanctify ourſelves; and by a conduct directly contrary to Chriſtian morality, we become odious to Jeſus Chriſt. Let us no more deceive ourſelves by flattering our- ſelves with the remembrance of our paſt plea- ſures, we ſhall make our lives troubleſome, and , we ſhall be incapable of reliſhing the ſweets of ſolitude. Let us make a good uſe of our auſteri- Q 186 ABEL ARD To HELOISE. ties, and no longer preſerve the ideas of our crimes amongſt the ſeverities of penitence. Let a mortifi- cation of body and mind, a ſtrict faſting, conti- nual ſolitude, profound and holy meditations, and a fincere love of God, ſucceed our former ir- regularities. Let us try to carry religious perfection to a very difficult point, 'Tis beautiful to find in Chriſtianity minds ſo diſengaged from the earth, from the crea- tures and themſelves, that they ſeem to act inde- pendently of thoſe bodies they are joined to, and to uſe them as their ſlaves. We can never raiſe ourſelves to too great heights, when God is the object. Be our endeavours ever ſo great, they will always come ſhort of reaching that exalted Divi- mity, which even our apprehenſions 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, Heloiſe, I would wil- lingly make my abode at the Paraclete. My earneſt care for a houſe I diave founded, would draw a thouſand bleſſings on it. I would inſtruct it by my words, and animate it by my example. I would watch over the lives of my fiſters, and would com- mand nothing but what I myſelf would perform. I ABELARD to HELOISE. 187 would direct you to pray, meditate, labour, and keep vows of filence; and I would myſelf pray, meditate, labour, and be filent. 2. 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 dark-, meſs and obſcurity which might at any time ſur- priſe you. I would comfort you under thoſe ſe- verities 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, ac- cording to the different characters of thoſe I ſhould guide in the painful path of Chriſtian per- fection. But whither does my vain imagination carry me? Ah Heloiſe, how, far are we from ſuch a happy temper ? Your heart ſtill burns with that fatal fire which you cannot extinguiſh, and mine is full of trouble and uneaſineſs. Think not, He- loiſe, that I enjoy here a perfect peace; I will, Q 2 § 188 ABELARD To HELOISE. for the laſt time, open my heart to you; I am mot 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 ſhare in them. Your letters have indeed moved me, I could not read with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. I figh, I weep, and all my reaſon is ſcarce ſufficient to conceal my weakneſs from my pupils. This unhappy Heloiſe! is the mi- ſerable 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 1 people indeed did not miſtake in thinking when we ſeparated, that . ſhame and grief for having been ſo cruelly uſed made me abandon the world. 'Twas not, as you know, a fincere repentance for having offended God, which inſpired me with a deſign of retiring: However, I confidered the accident which hap- pened to us as a ſecret deſign of Providence, 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 re- mained, if the rage of my enemies would have permitted : I have endured all their perſecutions, ABELARD To HELOISE. 189 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 doc- trime; I made its purity public, and ſhewed in the end that my faith was not only orthodox, but alſo perfectly clear from even the ſuſpicion of novelty. I ſhould he happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other hindrance to my ſalvation but their calumny; but, Heloiſe, you make me trouble; 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 would you have me take in this caſe ? Would you have me ſtifle the inſpirations of the Holy Ghoſi ? Shall I, to ſooth you, dry up thoſe tears which the evil ſpirit makes you ſhed; Shall this be the fruit of my meditations? 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 190 ABELARD To HELOISE, great action, and that glory increaſes porportion- ably, as the difficulties are more confiderable. 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 yoo to the fleſh, and if by the aſſiſtance of grace you are ſo happy as to accompliſh this, I 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 cowardice; befides, I would have you informed, that ygu muſt neceſſa- rily take great pains, becauſe you ſtrive to con- quer a terrible enemy, to extinguiſh raging fire, and to reduce to ſubjection your deareſt affections; you muſt fight againſt your own defires; be not therefore preſſed down with the weight of your corrupt nature. You have to do with a cumning 2dverſary, who will uſe all means to ſeduce you; be always upon your guard. While we live we * ABELARD TO HELOISE 19 | are expoſed to temptations; this made a great Saint ſay, that the whole life of man was a temp- tation; the devil, who never ſleeps, walks coa- tinually around us, in order to ſurpriſe us on ſome unguarded fide, 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 himſelf their ſource, concupiſcence; ſcarce are we delivered from one temptation, but another attacks us. Such is the lot of the poſterity of Adam , that they ſhould always have fomething to ſuffer, becauſe they have forfeited their primi- tive happineſs. We vainly flatter ourſelves that we ſhall conquer temptations by flying ; if we join not patience and humility . we ſhall torment ourſelves to no purpoſe. We ſhall more certainly compaſs our end by imploring God’s aſſiſtance : than by uſing any means drawn from ourſelves, Be conſiant, Heloiſe, 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 192 ABELARD to HELOISE. - diſeaſe, ſaid an ancient, in its beginning, for when it hath gained ſtrength, medicines will be unavailable; temptations have their degrees, they are at firſt mere thoughts, and do not appear dangerous; the imagination receives them without any fears ; a pleaſure is formed out of them, we pauſe upon it, and at laſt we yield to it. Do you now, Heloiſe, applaud my defign of making you walk in the ſteps of the Saints? Do my words give you any reliſh for penitence 2 Have you not remorſe for your wanderings, and do you not wiſh you could, like Magdalen, waſh our Saviour's feet with your tears? If you have not yet theſe ardent emotions, pray that he would in- ſpire them. I ſhall never ceaſe to recommend you in my prayers , and always beſeech him to aſſiſt you in your deſire of dying holily. You have quit- ted the world, and what object was worthy to detain you there? Lift up your eyes always 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 ABELARD To HELOISE. 193 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, Heloiſe; put your defign in execution without delay; you have yet time enough to work out your ſalvation. Love Chriſt, and de- ſpiſe yourſelf for his ſake. He would poſſeſs your heart, and be the ſole object of your fighs 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 fiedfaſt and immoveable. If you force the Lord to forſake you, you will ſall into diſtreſs'; but if you be ever faithful to him, you will be always in joy. Magdalén wept, as thinking the Lord had forſaken her. But Martha ſaid, See, the Lord calls you. He diligent in your duty, and obey faithfully the motions of his grace, and Jeſus will remain always with you. • Attend, Heloiſe, to ſome inſtructions I have to give you : You are at the head of a ſociety, and you know there is this difference between R 194 ABELARD To HELOISE. thoſe who lead a private life, and ſuch as are charged with the conduct of others; that the firſt need only labour for their own ſanctification, and in acquitting themſelves of their duties are not ob- liged 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 ca- pable 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 religious recluſe. God, who heartily defires our falvation, 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 requires of us, that we might not be be- wildered in ſeeking after his will. In the new Te- ſtament he hath written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent that it might be always pre- ſent with us; and, knowing the weakneſs and in- capacity 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 of the church, raiſed up men, who by their exemplary life might excite others to their duty. To effect this, he hath choſen perſons of every age, ſex, and condition. ABELARD to HELorSE. 195 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 an- chorites, 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 ſuperior; and then death, which is commonly conſidered 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 difficult to comprehend why their death ſhould have this advantage over that of finners. I have remarked three things which might have given the Prophet an occaſion of ſpeaking thus. Firſt, their refignation 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 the will of God, yields to death without reluc- tance. He waits with joy (ſays St. Gregory) for the judge who is to reward him, he fears not to quit this miſerable mortal life, in order to begin an im- mortal happy one. It is not fo with the finner, ſays the ſame father; he fears, and with reaſon, R 2 196. ABELARD to HELOISE. he trembles at the approach of the leaſt fickneſs; death is terrible to hin, 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 fins. The Saints have befides this advantage over. finners, that having made works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exerciſe them with- out trouble, and having gained new ſtrength againſt the devil every time they overcame him, they will find themſelves 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, Heloiſe, that after having deplored the irregularities of your paſt life, you will die (as the Prophet 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 re- ligion preſcribes : And yet we can be ſaved by nothing but the Croſs, why then do we refuſe to bear it? Hath not our Saviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might alſo ABELARD To HELOISE. 197 bear it, and defire to die alſo 2 All the Saints have been afflicted, and our Saviour himſelf did not paſs one hour of his life without ſome ſorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempted from ſufferings. The Croſs, Heloiſe, 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 will be oppreſſed by it unprofitably. On the con- trary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your ſufferings will create in you a holy con- fidence, whereby you will find comfort in God, Hear our Saviour, who ſays, My child, renounce 3rourſe ºf, eake up 3-our croſs and follow me. Oh Heloiſe ! do you doubt? Is not your ſoul raviſhed at ſo ſaving a command 2 Are you deaf to his voice? Are you inſenſible to words ſo full of kind- meſs? Beware, Heloiſe, of refuſing a huſband who demands you, and is more to be feared, if you ſlight his affection, than any profane lover. Pro- voked at your contempt and ingratitude, he will turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance. How will you ſuſtain his preſence, when you ſhall ſtand before his tribunal 2 He will reproach you for having deſpiſed his grace; he will repreſent to you his ſufferings for you. What ânſwer can you make 2 He will then be impla- cable. He will ſay to you, Go, proud creature. 198 ABELARD ro HELOISE. dwell in everlaſting flames; I ſeparated you from the world to purify you in ſolitude, and you did not ſecond my defign. I endeavoured to ſave you, and you took pains to deſtroy yourſelf: Go, wretch, and take the portion of the reprobates, Oh, Heloiſe, prevent theſe terrible words, and avoid by a holy courſe ihe puniſhment prepared for finners. I dare not give you a deſcription of thoſe dreadful torments which are the conſequen- ces of a life of guilt. I am filled with horror, when they offer themſelves to my imagination: And yet, Heloiſe; 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 burns them; and without enumerating their endleſs pains, the loſs of God which they feel increaſes all their torments. Can any one fin 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 reſtrain us from doing any thing which might diſpleaſe thee! . I queſtion not, Heloiſe, but you will hereafter apply, yourſelf in good earneſt to the buſineſs of your ſalvation: This, ought to be your whole con- ABELARD to HELOISE. 199 cern. Baniſh me therefore for ever from your heart; 'tis the bef advice I -can give you : For the remembrance of a perſon we have loved cri- minally cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we have made in the ways of virtue. When you have extirpated your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue will become eaſy; and when at laſt your life is conformable to that of Chriſt, death will be defirable to you. Your ſoul will joyfully leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will appear with confidence before your Saviour : You will not read characters of your reprobation written in the book of life : but you will hear your Saviour ſay, Come, partake df my glory, and enjoy the etermal reward I have appointed for thoſe virtues you have practiſed. Farewel, Heloiſe. This is the laſt advice of your dear Abelard; this laſt time, let me per- ſuade you to follow the holy rules of the Goſpel. Heaven grant that your heart, once ſe ſenſible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal | May the idea of your loving Abelard, al- ways 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 misfortunes : .* 200 E L O IS A To A B E L A R D. By Mr. POPE. IN theſe deep ſolitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-penfive contemplation dwells, And ever muſing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a Veſtal’s veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this laſt retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat 3 Yet, yet I love —From Abelard it came, And Eloiſa yet muſt kiſs the name. Dear fatal name reſt ever unreveal’d, Nor paſs theſe lips in holy filence ſeal’d: Hide it, my heart, within that cloſe diſguiſe, Where mix’d with God's, his lov’d idea lies : O write it not my hand-the name appears Already written—waſh it out, my tears! In vain loft Eloíſa weeps and prays, Her heart ſtill dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentleſs walls whoſe darkſome round contains Repentant fighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks which holy knees have worn ; Ye grots and caverns ſhagg’d with horrid thorn! * * ELOISA ro ABELARD." 20 I Shrines where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, And pitying Saints, whoſe ſtatues learn to weep Tho' cold like you, unmov’d and filent grown, I have not yet forgot myſelf to ſtone. Ali is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part, Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; f Nor pray'rs, nor faſts its ſtubborn pulſe reſtrain, Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I uncloſe, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever ſad for ever dear! Still breath’d in fighs, ſtill uſher'd with a tear. I tremble too, where’er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows cloſe behind. Line after line my guſhing eyes o'erflow, Led thro' a ſad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom, Loſi in a convent's ſolitary gloom There ſtern Religion quench'd th’unwilling flame, There dy'd the beſt of paſſions, Love and Fame. "Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Grieſs to thy griefs, and echo fighs to thine. Nor foes, nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard leſs kind than they? Tears fill are mine, and thoſe I need not ſpare, Ø09 ELOISA ro ABELARD. Love but demands what elſe were ſhed in pray’r; No happier taſk theſe faded eyes purſue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then ſhare thy pain, allow that ſad relief; Ah , more than ſhare it, give me all thy grief. Heav'n firſt taught letters for ſome wretch's aid, Some baniſh’d lower, or ſome captive maid; They live, they ſpeak, they breathe what lowe inſpires, Warm from the ſoul, and faithful to its fires, Tho. virgin’s wiſh without her feats impart. Excuſe the bluſh, and pour out all the heart, Speed the ſoft intercourſe from ſoul to ſoul, And waft a figh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know’ſ how guiltleſs firſt I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendſhip's name ; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, . Some emanation of th'all-beauteous Mind. Thoſe ſmiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray, Shone ſweetly lambent with celeſtial day. Guiltleſs I gaz'd; heav'n liſten’d while you ſung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like thoſe what precept fail'd to move? Too ſoon they taught me ’twas no fin to love : ELOISA to ABELARD. 203 Back thro’ the paths of pleafing ſenſe I ran , Nor wiſh'd an Angel whom I lov’d a Mam. Dim and remote the joys of Saints I fee; Nor envy them that heav'n I loſe for thee. How oft, when preſs'd to marriage, have I ſaid, Curſe on all laws but thoſe which Love has made 3 Love , free as air, at fight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies, Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, Auguſt her deed, and ſacred be her fame ; Before true paſſion a H- throſe views remove - Fame, wealth, and honour ! what are you to Love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, *- Thoſe reſtleſs paſſions in revenge inſpires, And bids them make miſtaken mortals groan, Who ſeek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great maſter fall, Himſelf, his throne, his world, I’d ſcorn 'em all: Not Caeſar's empreſs would I deign to prove; No, make me miſtreſs to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More forld than miſtreſs, make me that to thee! Oh! happy ſtate ; when ſouls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law : All then is full, poſſeſſing, and poſſeſt, No craving void left aking in the breaſt : 20.4 ELOISA. To ABELARD. * Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wiſh ſprings mutual from the heart. This ſure is bliſs (if bliſs on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas how chang'd what ſudden horrors rife! A naked Lover bound and bleeding lies | Where, where was Eloïſe ? her voice, her hand, Her poniard had oppos'd the dire command. Barbarian, ſtay ! that bloody ſtroke reſtrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more . by ſha was 2 +y rese ſuppreſs'd, Let tears, and Fuming bluſhes ſpeak the reſt. Canſt thou forget that ſad, that ſolemn day, when victims at yon altar's foot we lay ? Canſi thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold Jips I kiſs'd the ſacred veil, The ſhrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale : Heav'n ſcarce believ'd the conqueſt it ſurvey’d , And Saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to thoſe dread altars as I drew, Not on the Croſs my eyes were fix’d, but you : Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I loſe thy love, I loſe my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe: ! ELOISA to ABELARD. 205 * Thoſe ſtill at leaſt are left thee to beſtow. Still on that breaft enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poiſon from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be preſs'd : ". Give all thou canſt—and let me dream the reſt. Ah no inſtruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view ſet all the bright abode, And make my ſoul quit Abelard for God. Ah think at leaſt thy flock deſerves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray’r. From the falſe world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deſerts led. You rais’d theſe hallow’d walls; the deſert ſmil’d, And Paradiſe was open'd in the Wild. No weeping orphan ſaw his father's flores Our ſhrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No filver Saints, by dying miſers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n, But ſuch plain roofs as Piety could raiſe, And only vocal with the Maker's praiſe. In theſe lone walls (their days eternal bound) Theſe moſs-grown domes with ſpiry turrets. crown'd, Where awful arches make a moon-day night, And the dim windows ſhed a ſolemn light; 206 ELO-ISA To ABELARD. The eyes diffus’d a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten’d all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank ſadneſs, or continual tears. ' See how the force of others’ pray'rs I try, (O pious fraud of am’rous charity () But why ſhould I on others' pray'rs depend? Come thou , my father, brother, huſband, friendſ Ah let thy handmaid, fifter, daughter move, And all thoſe tender names in one, thy love The darkſome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin’d Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring ſtreams that ſhine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more theſe ſcenes my meditation aid, Or lull to reſt the viſionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and duſky caves, Long-ſounding iſles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy fits, and round her throws. A death-like filence, and a dread repoſe : Her gloomy preſence ſaddens all the ſcene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens thé murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. ELOISA To ABELARD. 207 Yet here for ever, ever muſt I ſtay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey ! Death, only death, can break the laſting chain; And here, ev’n them, ſhall my cold duß’remain , Here all its frailties, all its flames reſign, And wait till 'tis no fin to mix with thine. Ah wretch! believ'd the ſpouſe of God in vain, Confeſs'd within the ſlave of love and man. Aſſiſt me, heav'n' but whence aroſe that pray'r? Sprung it from piety, or from deſpair? Ev’n here, where frozea chaſtity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view , Repent old pleaſures, and follicit new ; Now turn'd to heav'n, I weep my paſt offence, Now think of thee, and curſe my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, . 'Tis ſure the hardeſt ſcience to forget ! How ſhall I loſe the fin, yet keep the ſenſe, And love th'offender, yet deteſt th'offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how diſtinguiſh penitence from love? Unequal taſk a paſſion to reſign, For hearts ſo touch'd, fo pierc'd, ſo loſt as mine. 208 ELOISA ºro ABELARD. * ** Ere ſuch a ſoul regains its peaceful ſtate, ** How often muſt it love, how often hate How often hope, deſpair, reſent, regret, Conceal, diſdain,_do-all things but forget. But let heav'n ſeize it; all at once ’tis fir’d; Not touch'd , but rapt; nor waken'd, but inſpir'd? Oh come, oh teach me nature to ſubdue, Renounce my love, my life, myſelf—and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can ſucceed to thee. How happy is the blameleſs Veſtal’s lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal ſun-ſhine of the ſpotleſs mind Each pray’r accepted, and each wiſh reſign'd ; Labour and reſt, that equal periods keep; Obedient ſlumbers that can wake and weep; Defires compos'd, affections ever ev’m ; Tears that delight, and fighs that waft to heav'n. Grace ſhines around her with ſereneſt beams, And whiſp'ring Angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th’unfäding roſe of Eden blooms, And wings of Seraphs ſhed divine perfumes, . For her the Spouſe prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins Hymenaeals fing, To founds of heav'nly harps ſhe dies away 3. And melts in viſions of etérnal day. * * ELOISA To ABELARD. 209 Far other dreams my erring ſoul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the cloſe of each ſad, ſorrowing day, Fancy refiores what vengeance ſnatch'd away, Then conſcience ſleeps, and leaving mature free, All my looſe ſoul unbounded ſprings to thee. O curſt, dear horrors of all-conſcious might ! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! . Provoking Daemons all reſtraint remove, And ſtir within me ev'ry ſource of love. i I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my claſping arms. I wake : —no more : I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies.ne, as unkind as you. I call aloud: it hears not what I ſay : I ſtretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I cloſe my willing eyes; Ye ſoft illuſions, dear deceits, ariſe ! - Alas, no more methinks we wand'ring go Thro' dreary waſtes, and weep each other's woe, Where round ſome mould'ring tow'r pale ivy creeps, And low-brow’d rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the ſkies; Clouds interpoſe, waves roar, and winds ariſe. I ſhriek, ſtart up, the ſame: ſad proſpect find, And wake to all the grieſs I left behind. S 2.J.9 ELOISA To ABELARE). For thee the fates, ſeverely kind, ordain A cool ſuſpenſe from pleaſure and from pain; Thy life a long dead calm of fix’d repoſe; No pulſe that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the ſea, ere winds were taught to blow , Or moving ſpirit bade the waters flow ; Soft as the ſlumbers of a Saint forgiv'n, And mild as op'ning gleams of promis'd heav'n, Come, Abelard for what haft thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature ſtands check'd : Religion diſapproves ; Ev’n thou art cold—yet Eloíſa loves. Ah hopeleſs, laſting flames like thoſe that burn To light the dead, and warm th’unfruitful urn. What ſcenes appear where’er I turn my view 2 The dear ideas, where I fly, purſue, - Riſe in the grove, before the altar riſe, Stain all my ſoul, and wanton in my eyes. I waſte the Matin lamp in fighs for thee, Thy image ſteals between Iny God and me, Thy voice I ſeem in ev'ry hymn to hear, With ev'ry bead I drop too ſoft a tear. When from the cenſer clouds of fragrance roll, And ſwelling organs lift the riſing ſoul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, ELoISA ro ABELARD. 2 I ſt Prieſts, tapers, temples, ſwim before my fight: In ſeas of flame my plunging ſoul is drown'd, While Altars blaze, and Angels tremble round. While proſtrate here in humble grief I lie: Kind, virtuous drops juſt gath'ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the duſt I roll, And dawning grace is op'ning on my ſoul : Come, if thou dar'ſt, all charming as thou art Oppoſe thyſelf to heav'n ; diſpute my heart: Come, with one glance of thoſe deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the ſkies; Take back that grace, thoſe ſorrows, and thoſe tears; Take back my fruitleſs penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, juſt mounting, from the bleſt abode; Aſſiſt the fiends, and tear me from my God . No , fly me, fly me, far as Pole from Pole; Riſe Alps between us 1 and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor ſhare one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory reſign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view ) Long lov’d, ador'd ideas, all adieu ! *~, O Grace ſerene ! O Virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of Iow-thoughted care : , Freſh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the ſky S 2 2 I 2 ELOISA To ABELARD. sº And Faith, our early immortality! Fnter, each mild, each amicable gueſt; 'Receive , and wrap me in eternal reſt!. * See in her cell ſad Eloíſa ſpread, Propt on ſome tomb, a neighbour of the dead. in each low wind, methinks a Spirit calls, And more than Echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, From yonder ſhrine I heard a hollow ſound. “Come, fiſter, come! (it ſaid, or ſeem'd to ſay). “Thy place is here, ſad fiſter, come away 1 “Once like thyſelf, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, “Love's victim then, tho’ now a ſainted.maid: “But all is calm in this eternal. ſleep; . . “Here grief forgets to groan, aud love to weep, “Ev’n ſuperſtition loſes ev'ry fear; i “For God,' not man, abſolves our frailties here.” I come, I come prepare your roſeate bow’rs, Celeſtial palms, and ever-blooming flow’rs. Thither, where finners may have reſt, I go, Where flames refin’d in breaſts ſeraphic glow : Thou, Abelard I, the laſt ſad office, pay, , , And ſmooth my paſſage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my laſt breath, and catch my flying ſoul! ^, ELGISA to ABELARD. 2.13 Ah no—in ſacred veſtments may’ſt thou ſtand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Preſent the Croſs before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-kov'd Eloïſa ſee It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the tranſient roſes fly See the laſt ſparkle languih in my eye; .”Till ev'ry motion, pulſe, and breath be o'er; And ev’n my Abelard be lov’d no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What duſt we doat on , when 'tis man we love. Then too, when fate ſhall thy fair frame deſtroy, (That cauſe of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance extatic may thy pangs, be drown'd, Bright clouds deſoerid, and Angels watch thee 2 f round , 4: . From op'ning ſkies may ſtreaming glories ſhine, And Saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapleſs name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame ! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart ſhall beat no more; If eyer chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and filver ſprings, * 14. ELOISA To AFELARE). O'er the pale marble ſhall they join their heads And drink the falling tears each other ſheds; Then ſadly ſay, with mutual pity mov’d, “Oh may we never love as theſe have lov'd " From the full choir when loud Hoſannas riſe, And ſwell the pomp of dreadful ſacrifice, Amid that ſcene if ſome relenting eye Glamze on the ſtone where our cold relics lie, Bevotion's ſelf ſhall ſteal a thought from heav'n, One human tear ſhall drop, and be forgiv'n. And ſure if fate ſome future bard ſhall join In ſad ſimilitude of griefs to finine, Condemn’d whole years in abſence to deplore, And image charms he muſt behold no more; Such if there be, who loves ſo long, ſo well; Let him our ſad, our tender ſtory tell; The well-ſung woes will ſooth my penſive ghoſt; He beſt can paint ’em who ſhall feel 'em moſt. 3. { * * 2 15 A B E L AIt D To H E L OIS E. Ry, Mrs. MA DAN. IN my dark cell, low proſtrate on the ground, Mourning my crimes, thy letter entrance found; Too ſoon my ſoul the well-known name confeſt, My beating heart ſprang fiercely in my breaſt, Thro' my whole frame a guilty tranſport glow’d, And ſtreaming torrents from my eyes faſt flow’d. Oh Heloiſs art thou ſtill the ſame 2 Doſt thou ſtill nouriſh this deſtructive ſlame? Have not the gentle rules of peace and heav'n, From thy ſoft ſoul this fatal paſſion driv'n? Alas! I thought you diſengag’d and free; And can you ſtill, ſtill figh and weep for me? What pow'rful Deity , what hallow'd Shrine, Can ſave me from a love, a faith like thine 2 Where ſhall I fly, when not this awful cave, Whoſe rugged feet the ſurging billows lave; When not theſe gloomy cloiſters’ ſolemn walls, O'er whoſe rough fides the languid ivy crawls, When my dread vows, in vain, their force oppoſe? Oppos'd to love—alas!—how vain are vows! º 2 16 ABELARD To HELOISE, In fruitleſs penitence I wear away Each tedious night, and ſad revolving day; I faſt, I pray, and with deceipful art, Veil thy dear image in my tortur'd heart; My tortur'd heart conflicting paſſions move, I hope, deſpair, repent—yet fiill I love : A thouſand jarring thoughts my boſom tear, For thou ; not God, O Heloiſe, art there. To the falſe world’s deluding pleaſures dead, Nor longer by its wand'ring fires miſled, In learn'd diſputes harſh preceps I infuſe, And give the counſel I want pow'r to uſe. The rigid maxims of the grave and wiſe, Have quench’d each milder ſparkle of my eyes; Each lovely feature of this once-lov’d face, By grief revers'd aſſumes a ſterner grace; O Heloiſa ſhould the fates once more, Indulgent to my view, thy charms reſtore, How from my arms would'ſt thou with horror ſtart, To miſs the form familiar to thy heart Nought could thy quick, thy, piercing judg- ment ſee, To ſpeak me Abelard—but love to thee. Lean abſtinence, pale, grief, and haggard care, The dire attendants of forlorn deſpair, Have Abelard, the young, the gay, remov’d, And in the hermit ſunk the man you lov’d. * *- * ABELARD To HELOISE. <217 Wraph in the gloom theſe holy manſions ſhed, The thorny paths of penitence I tread; Lóſi to the world, from all its int’reſts free, And torn from all my ſoul held dear in thee, Ambition with its train of frailties gone, All loves and forms forgot—but thine alone, Amid the blaze of day, the duſk of might, My Heloiſa riſes to my fight; Veil'd as in Paraclete’s ſecluded tow’rs, The wretched mourner oounts the lagging hours; I hear her ſighs, ſee the ſwift-falling tears, Weep all her griefs, and pant with all her cares. O vows! O convent your ſtern force impart, And frown the melting phantom from my heart; Let other fighs a worthier ſorrow ſhow, Let other tears from fin repentant flow ; Low to the earth my guilty eyes I roll, And humble to the duſt my heaving ſoul. Forgiving pow'r thy gracious call I meet, Who firſt impower'd this rebel heart to beat; Who thro' this trembling, this offending frame, For nobler ends inſpir’d life's active flame. " ` O ! change the temper of this lab’ring breaſt, And form anew each beating pulſe to reſt! " " - Let ſpringing grace, fair faith, and hope remove , The fatal traces of deſtructive' love . . " " ' . Deſtructive love from his warm manſions tear, T % 218 ABELARD To HELOISE And leave no traits of Heloiſa there ! Are theſe the wiſhes of my inmoſt ſoul? Would I its ſoft, its tend’reſt ſenſe controul ? Would I thus touch'd this glowing heart refine, To the cold ſubſtance of this marble ſhrine? Transform'd like theſe pale ſwarms that round me move , of bleſ Inſenfibles—who know no love? Ah rather, let me keep this hapleſs flame ! Adieu ! falſe honour, unavailing fame ! Not your harſh rules, but tender love ſupplies The fireams that guſh from my deſpairing eyes; I feel the traitor melt about my heart, And thro' my veins with treach'rous influence dart: Inſpire me, heav'n' aſſiſt me, grace divine ! Aid me, ye Saints unknown to pains like mine; You ! who on earth ſerene all griefs could prove, All but the tort’ring pangs of hopeleſs love; A holier rage in your pure boſoms dwelt, Nor can you pity what you never felt: A ſympathifing grief alone can lure, The hand that heals, muſt feel what I endure. Thou, Heloiſe, alone camſt give me eaſe, And bid my ſtruggling ſoul ſubſide to peace; Reſtore me to my long loſt heav'n of reſt, And take thyſelf from my reluctant breaſis / ARELARD to HELOISE. 219 If crimes like mine could an allay receive, That bleſt allay thy wond’rous charms might give, Thy form, that firſt to love my heart inclin'd, Still wanders in my loft, my guilty mind. I ſaw thee as the new-blown bloſſoms fair, Sprightly as light, more ſoft than ſummer's air, Bright as their beams thy eyes a mind diſcloſe, Whilſt on thy lips gay bluſh'd the fragrant roſe; Wit, youth, and love, in each dear feature ſhone; Preſt by my fate, I gaz'd —and was undone. There dy'd the gen’rous fire, whoſe vig'rous * flame Enlarg’d my ſoul, and urg'd me on to fame; Nor fame, nor wealth, my ſoften’d heart could move, Dully inſenſible teakli but love. Snatch'd from myſelf, my learning taſteleſs grew ; Vain my philoſophy, oppos'd to you; A train of woes ſucceed, nor ſhould we mourn The hours that cannot, ought not to return. As once to love I ſway'd your yielding mind, Too fond, alas ! too fatally inclin'd, To virtue now let me your breaſt inſpire, And fan, with zeal divine, the heav'nly fire; Teach you to injur'd heav'n alk chang'd to turn T 2 220 ABELARD To HELOISE. And bid the ſoul with ſacred rapture burn. 'O ! that my own example might impart This noble warmth to your ſoft trembling heart! That mine, with pious undiſſembled care, Could aid the latent virtue ſtruggling there! Alas! I rave—nor grace, nor zeal divine, Burn in a heart oppreſs'd with crimes like mine; Too ſure I find, while I the tortures prove Of feeble piety, conflicting love, On black deſpair my forc’d devotion’s built, Abſence for me has ſharper pangs than guilt, Yet, yet, my Heloiſe, thy charms I view, Yet my fighs breathe, my tears pour forth zº for you ; Each weak refiſtance ſtronger knits my chain, I figh , weep, love, deſpair, repent—in vain : Hafie, Heloíſa, haſte, your lover free, Amidſt your warmeſt pray’r–Oh, think on me! Wing with your riſing zeal my grov'ling mind, And let me mine from your repentance find Ah! labour, ſtrive, your love, yourſelf controul! The change will ſure affect my kindred ſoul; In bleſt conſent our purer fighs ſhall breathe, And heav'n aſſiſting, ſhall our crimes forgive, But if unhappy, wretched, loſt, in vain, Faintly th’ unequal combat you ſuſtain; | ~ V. ABELARD to HELOISE. 221 If not to heav'n you feel your boſom rife, Nor tears refin’d fall contrite from your eyes; If ſtill your heart its wonted paſſions move, If ſtill, to ſpeak all pains in one—you love: Deaf to the weak eſſays of living breath, Attend the ſtronger eloquence of death. When that kind pow'r this captive ſoul ſhall * free, Which only then can ceaſe to doat on thee; When gently ſunk to my eternal ſleep, The Paraclete my peaceful urn ſhall keep" Then, Heloiſa, then your lover view, See his quench’d eyes no longer gaze on you ; From their dead orbs that tender rutt’rance flown, Which firſt to thine my heart's ſoft fate made known, This breaſt no more, at length to eaſe confign'd, Pant like the waving aſpen in the wind; See all my wild, tumultuous paſſion o'er, And thou, amazing changel belov’d no more; Behold the deſtin'd end of human love— But let the fight your zeal alone improve ; Let not your conſcious ſoul, to ſorrow mov’d, Recall how much, how tenderly I lov'd : With pious care your fruitleſs griefs reſtrain. •º. Nor let a tear your ſacred veil profane : Not e'en a figh on my cold urn beſtow; 222 ABELARD To HELOISE, Af But let your breaft with new-born raptures glow ; Let love divine, frail mortal love dethrone, And to your mind immortal joys make known; . Let heav'n relenting ſtrike your raviſh’d view, . And ſtill the bright, the bleſt purſuit renew So with your crimes ſhall your misfortune ceaſe, And your rack’d ſoul be calmly huſh'd to peace. 223 A BEL ARD To H E L OISE. Jºy Mr. CAWTHORNE, M A S T E R O F T UN BRI D G E - S C H O G L . AH, why this boding flat this ſudden pain, That wings my pulſe, and ſhoots from vein to vein 2 - What mean, regardleſs of yon midnight bell, Theſe earth-born viſions ſaddening o'er my cell? What ſtrange diſorder prompts the thoughts to glow 2 - Theſe fighs to murmer, and theſe tears to flow 2 Tis ſhe ; ’tis Heloiſa's form reſtor’d, Once a pure Saint, and more than Saints ador'd : She comes in all her killing charms confeſt, Glares thro’ the gloom, and pours upon my breaft, Bids heav'n's bright guard from Paraclete re- move , And drags me back to miſery and love, º- Enjoy thy triumphs, dear illuſion I ſee This ſad apoſtate from his God to thee; 224 ABELARD To HELOISE. See, at thy call, my guilty warmths return, Flame thro' my blood, and ſteal me from my urn. Yet, yet, frail Abelard one effort try, Ere the laſt lingering ſpark of virtue die : The deadly charming ſorcereſs controul, And ſpite of nature tear her from thy ſoul. Long has that ſoul in theſe unſocial woods, Where anguiſh muſes, and where horror broods, From love's wild viſionary wiſhes ſtray'd, And ſought to loſe thy beauties in the ſhade, Faith dropt a ſmile, devotion lent her fire, l Woke the keen pang, and ſanctify’d defire; Led me enraptur'd to the bleſt abode, And taught my heart to glow with all its God. But oh, how weak fair faith and virtue prove , When Heloiſa melts away in love! * When her fond ſoul impaſſion'd , rapt, unveil'd, No joy forgotten, and no wiſh conceal’d, Flows thro’ her pen as infant ſoftneſs free, And fiercely ſprings in ecſtafies to me. Ye Heavens ! as walking in yon ſacred fame, With every ſeraph warm in every vein, Juſt as remorſe had rous’d an aking figh, And my torm ſoul hung trembling in my eye, In that kind hour thy fatal letter came, I ſaw, I gaz'd, I ſhiver'd at the name ; ABELARD To HELOISE. 225 The conſcious lamps at once forgot to ſhine, Prophetic tremors ſhook the hallow'd ſhrine ; Prieſts, cenſers, altars from thy genius fled, And Heaven itſelf ſhut on me while I read. Dear ſmiling Miſchief! art thou ſtill the ſame, The ſtill pale victim of too ſoft a flame? Warm, as when firſt with more than mortal ſhine Each melting eye-ball mix'd thy foul with mine? Have not thy tears for ever taught to flow, ‘The glooms of abſence, and the pangs of woe, The pomp of ſacrifice, the whiſper'd tale, The dreadful vow yet hovering o'er thy veil, Drove this bewitching fondneſs from thy breaſt 2 Curb’d the looſe wiſh, and form'd each pulſe to reſt ? And canſt thou ſtill, ſtill bend the ſuppliant knee To love's dread ſhrine, and weep and figh for me 2 Then take me, take me, lock me in thy arms, Spring to my lips, and give me all thy charms: No , fly me, fly me, ſpread th’ impatient ſail, Steal the lark's wing, and mount the ſwift- eft gale; Skim the laſt Ocean, freeze beneath the Pole; Renounce me, curſe me, root me from thy ſoul; Fly, fly, for juſtice bares the arm of God, 226 ABELARD to HELOISE." And the graſp'd vengeance only waits his mod. Are theſe my wiſhes 2 can they thus aſpire? Does phrenzy form them, or does grace inſpire f Can Abelard, in hurricanes of zeal, Betray his heart, and teach thee not to feel? Teach thy enamour’d ſpirit to diſown Each human warmth, and chill thee into ſtone 7 Ah, rather let my tendereſt accents move The laſt wild tumults of unholy love 1 On that dear boſom trembling let me lie, Pour out my ſoul, and in fierce raptures die, Rouze all my paſſions, act my joys anew , º Farewell, ye cells ye martyr'd Saints, adieu ! Sleep, conſcience, ſleep 1 each awful thought be drown'd, And ſeven-fold darkneſs veil the ſcene around. What means this pauſe, this agonizing ſtart? This glimpſe of heaven quick-ruſhing thro' my .* heart 2- Methinks I ſee a radiant Croſs diſplay’d, A wounded Saviour bleeds along the ſhade; Around th’ expiring God bright angels fly, Swell the loud hymn, and open all the ſky : O ſave me, ſave me, ere the thunders roll, And hell's black caverns ſwallow up my ſoul, ABELARD to HELOISE. 227 Return, ye hours! when, guiltleſs of a ſtain, My ſtrong-plum'd genius throbb’d in every vein, When, warm'd with all th’ Aegyptian fanes & inſpir’d, All Athens boaſted, and all Rome admir’d, My merit in its full meridian ſhone, Each rival bluſhing, and each heart my own. Return, ye ſcenes!—ah no , from fancy fly, On time's ſtretch'd wing, till each idea die. Eternal fly, ſince all that learning gave, (Too weak to conquer and too fond to ſave) To love's ſoft empire every wiſh betray'd, And left my laurels withering in the ſhade. Let me forget, that while deceitful fame Graſp'd her ſhrill trump, and fill'd it with my name , Thy ſtronger charms, impower'd by heav'n to In Ove Each Saint, each bleſt inſenſible to love, At once my ſoul from bright ambition won, I hugg’d the dart, I wiſh'd to be undone; No more pale ſcience durft my thoughts engage, Infipid dullneſs hung on every page; The midnight lamp no more enjoy'd its blaze, No more my ſpirit flew from maze to maze; Thy glances bade philoſophy reſign Her throne to thee, and every ſenſe was thine. aas ABELARD to HELOISE. But what could all the froſts of wiſdom do, Oppos'd to beauty, when it melts in you? Since theſe dark, cheerleſs, ſolitary caves, Death-breathing woods, and daily opening graves, Miſ-ſhapen rocks, wild images of woe, For ever howling to the deeps below ; Ungenial deſarts, where no vernal ſhower Wakes the green herb, or paints th’ unfolding flower; Th’ imbrowning glooms theſe holy manſions ſhed, The night-born horrors brooding o'er my bed, The diſmal ſcenes black melancholy pours O'er the ſad viſions of enanguiſh'd hours; Lean abſtinence, wan grief, low-thoughted care, Diſtracting guilt, and hell's worſt fiend, deſpair, Conſpire, in vain, with all the aids of art, To blot thy dear idea from my heart. Deluſive, fightleſs God of warm defire : Why would'ſt thou wiſh to ſet a wretch on fire 2 Why lives thy ſoft divinity where woe Heaves the pale figh, and anguiſh loves to glow 7 Fly to the mead, the daiſy-painted vale, . Breathe in its ſweets , and melt along the gale ; Fly where gay ſcenes luxurious youths employ, Where every moment ſteals the wing of joy; * ABELARD to HELOISE. 229 There may’ſ thou ſee, low proſtrate at thy throne, Devoted ſlaves and victims all thy own: Each village-ſwain the turf-built ſhrine ſhall raiſe, And kings command whole hecatombs to blaze. O memory ! ingenious to revive Each fleeting hour, and teach the paſt to live, Witneſs what conflicts this frail boſom tore What griefs I ſuffer'd : and what pangs I bore How long I ſtruggled, labour'd, ſtrove to ſave An heart that panted to be ſtill a ſlave When youth, warmth, rapture, ſpirit, love , and flame , Seiz'd every ſenſe, and burnt thro' all my frame; From youth, warmth, rapture, to theſe wilds I fled, My food the herbage, and the rock my bed. There, while theſe, venerable cloiſters riſe O'er the bleak ſurge, and gain upon the ſkies, My wounded ſoul indulg’d the tear to flow O'er all her ſad viciſſitudes of woe; Profuſe of life, and yet afraid to die, Guilt in my heart, and horror in my eye, With ceaſeleſs prayers, the whole artillery given To win the mercies of offended heaven, 23o ABELARD to HELOISE. Each hi}l, made vocal, eccho’d all around, While my torn breaſt knock'd bleeding on the * ground. Yet, yet, alas ! tho' all my moments fly Stain’d by a tear, and darken'd in a figh ; Tho' meagre faſts have on my cheek diſplay'd The duſk of death, and ſunk me to a ſhade, Spite of myſelf the ſtill-impoiſoning dart Shoots thro' my blood, and drinks up all my heart; s My vows and wiſhes wildly diſagree, And grace itſelf miſtakes, my God for thee. Athwart the glooms, that wrap the mid- might ſky, My Heloíſa ſteals upon my eye; For ever riſes in the ſolar ray, A phantom brighter than the blaze of day : Where e'er I go, the viſionary gueſt Pants on my lip, or finks upon my breaft; Unfolds her ſweets, and , trobbing to deſtroy, Winds round my heart in luxury of joy; While loud hoſannas ſhake the ſhrines around I hear her ſofter accents in the ſound ; Her idol-beauties on each altar glare, And heaven much-injur’d has but half my pray’r: No tears can drive her hence, no pangs controul, ABELARD To HELOISE. 231 For every object brings her to my ſoul. Laſt night, reclining on yon airy fleep, My buſy eyes hung brooding o'er the deep ; The breathleſs whirlwinds ſlept in every cave, And the ſoft moon-beam danc'd from wave to wave; Each former bliſs in this bright mirror ſeen, With all my glories, dawn'd upon the ſcene, Recall'd the dear auſpicious hour anew, When my fond ſoul to Heloiſa flew ; When, with keen ſpeechleſs ecſtafies oppreſt, Thy frantic lover ſnatch'd thee to his breaſt, Gaz'd on thy bluſhes arm'd with every grace, And ſaw the goddeſs beaming in thy face; Saw thy wild, trembling, ardent wiſhes move Each pulſe to rapture, and each glance to love. But lo! the winds deſcend, the billows roar, Foam to the clouds, and burſt upon the ſhore, Vaſt peals of thunder o'er the Ocean roll, The flame-wing'd lightning gleams from Pole to Pole, At once the pleaſing images withdrew , And more than horrors crowded on my view; Thy uncle's form, in all his ite array'd, Serenely dreadful ſtalk’d along the ſhade; Pierc’d by his ſword, I ſunk upon the ground, 232 ABELARD To HELOISE. The ſpectre ghaſtly ſmil’d upon the wound; A group of black infernals round me hung. And toſs'd my infamy from tongue to tongue. Deteſted wretch how impotent thy age How weak thy malice and how kind thy rage! Spite of thyſelf, inhuman as thou art, Thy murdering hand has left me all my heart; Left me each tender, fond affection, warm, A nerve to tremble, and an eye to charm. 'No, cruel, cruel, exquiſite to ill, Thou thought'ſ it dull barbarity to kill; My death had robb’d loſt vengeance of her toil, And ſcarcely warm’d a ſcythian to a ſmile : Sublimer furies taught thy ſoul to glow With all their ſavage myſteries of woe ; Taught thy unfeeling poniard to deſtroy The powers of nature, and the ſource of joy; To ſtretch me on the racks of vain defire, JEach paſſion throbbing, and each wiſh on fire; Mad to enjoy, unable to be bleſt, & Fiends in my veins, and hell within my breaſt. Aid me, fair Faith ! aſſiſt me, Grace divine! Ye Martyrs 1 bleſs me, and ye Saints refine : Ye ſacred groves | ye heav'n-devoted walls | Where folly fickens, and where virtue calls; ABELARD To HELOISE. 233 Ye vows : ye altars! from this boſom tear Voluptuous love, and leave no anguiſh there : Oblivion! be thy blackeſt plume diſplay'd O'er all my griefs, and hide me in the ſhade; And thou, too fondly idoliz'd : attend, While awful reaſon whiſpers in the friend; Friend, did I ſay? immortals what a name? Cam dull, cold friendſhip, own ſo wild a flame? No ; let thy lover, whoſe enkindling eye Shot all his ſoul between thee and the ſky, Whoſe warmth's bewitch'd thee, whoſe unhal- low'd ſong Call'd thy rapt ear to die upon his tongue, Now ſtrongly rouze, while heaven his zeal in- ſpires, ſ' Diviner tranſports, and more holy fires; Calm all thy paſſions, all thy peace reſtore, And teach that ſnowy breaſt to heave no more. Torn from the world, within dark cells in- mur'd, By angels guarded, and by vows ſecur'd, To all that once awoke thy fondneſs dead, And hope, pale ſorrow's laſt ſad refuge, fled; Why wilt thou weep, and figh, and melt in vain. Brood o'er falſe joys, and hug th’ ideal chain? Say, camſt thou wiſh, that, madly wild to fly U 234 ABELARD to HELOISE. From yon bright portal opening in the ſky, Thy Abelard ſhould bid his God adieu, Pant at thy feet, and taſte thy charms anew Ye heavens ! if to this tender boſom woo'd , . Thy mere idea harrows up my blood; If one faint glimpſe of Heloiſe can move The fierceſt, wildeſt agonies of love; What ſhall I be , when, dazzling as the light, Thy whole effulgence flows upon my fight 2 Look on thyſelf, confider who thou art, And learn to be an abbeſs in thy heart; See , while devotion's ever-melting ſtrain Pours the loud organ thro' the trembling fame, Yon pious maids each earthly wiſh diſown; Kiſs the dread Croſs, and croud upon the throne: O let thy ſoul the ſacred oharge attend, Their warmths inſpirit, and their virtues mend; Teach every breaſt from every hymn to ſteal The ſeraph's meekneſs, and the ſeraph's zeal To riſe to rapture, to diſſolve away In dreams of heaven, and lead thyſelf the way, Till all the glories of the bleſt abode Blaze on the ſeene, and every thought is God! While thus thy exemplary cares prevail, And make each veſial ſpotleſs as her veil, Th’ eternal Spirit o'er thy cell ſhall move In the ſoft image of the myſtic dove; *~~~ ABEL ARD To HELOISE. 235 The long-loſt gleams of heavenly comfort bring Peace in his ſmile, and healing on his wing; At once remove affliction from thy breaſt, Melt o'er thy ſoul, and huſh her pangs to reſt. O that my ſoul, from love's curſi bondage free, Could catch the tranſports that I urge to thee! O that ſome angel's more than magic art Would kindly tear the hermit from his heart! Extinguiſh every guilty ſenſe, and leave No pulſe to riot, and no figh to heave, - Vain fruitleſs wiſh ſtill, ſtill, the vigorous flame Burſts, like an earthquake, thro' my ſhatter'd frame"; Spite of the joys that truth and virtue prove, I feel but thee, and breathe not but to love; Repent in vain, ſcarce wiſh to be forgiven ; Thy form my idol, and thy charms my heaven. Yet, yet, my fair! thy nobler efforts try, iift me from earth, and give me to the ſky; Let my loſt ſoul thy brighter virtues feel, Warm'd with thy hopes, and wing'd with all thy zeal. •º: And when, low bending at the hallow’d ſhrine, Thy contrite heart ſhall Abelard refign; When pitying heaven, impatient to forgive , U 2 236 * ABELARD To HELOISE, Unbars the gates of light, and bids thee live; Seize on th’ auſpicious moment ere it flee, And aſk the ſame immortal boon for me. Then when theſe black terrific ſcenes are o’er And rebel nature chills the ſoul no more ; When on thy cheek th’ expiring roſes fade, And thy laſt luſtres darken in the ſhade ; When, arm'd with quick varieties of pain, Or creeping dully-ſlow from vein to vein, Pale death ſhall ſet my kindred ſpirit free, And theſe dead orbs forget-to doat on thee; Some pious friend, whoſe wild affections glow like ours, in ſad ſimilitude of woe, * Shall drop one tender, ſympathizing tear, Prepare the garland, and adorn the bier; ‘Our lifeleſs reliques in one tomb enſhrine, And teach thy genial duſt to mix with mine. Mean while, divinely purg'd from every ſtain, . Our active ſouls ſhall climb th’ etherial plain, t To each bright cherub's purity aſpire, Catch all his zeal, and pant with all his fire; There where no face the gloom of anguiſh wears, No uncle murders, and no paſſion tears, Enjoy with heaven eternity of reſt, For ever bleſſing, and for ever bleſt. arº ** * 437 A BE LA RI) T & H E L OISE. B Y A N UN K N O W N H A N D. Flamma eactincta relucet. Cold as I reſt—in this ſecluded ſcene, Where ev'ry object is a calm ſerene, Again to thine, reſponſive ſorrows riſe; Tears anſwer tears! and fighs re-echo fighs . Thy penſive numbers raiſe forbidden fires, And warmly wake the paſt to ſoft deſires: They bring thy image, ſtill ador'd, to view: I read—and bid Philoſophy adieu ! No more, ill-fatal love, invade my breaſt, Nor change, for Diſcord, philoſophic reſt. From man retir’d, my eyes I lift to God, Avow my frailties, kiſs th’ avenging rod. My crime was love! and ſtill thy tender name Revives, and feeds my ill-extinguiſh'd flame. Open my ſoil, there Heloiſa dwells, From God! from God my beating heart rebels. See ſee ſhe mounts to yon celeſtial plains! Ye Cherubs' play around your foſteſi ſtrains ! 238 ABELARD to HELOISE. Around your Queen, loves and graces, play ! Ye guardian ſpirits, waft each figh away; No human laws e'er dampt our ſoft deſire ; We lov’d l—we felt!—we fed the tender fire : Fancy recalls the hours of rapture paſt, Too great —too happy!—too ſublime to laſt! How chang'd the ſcene ! for in a cloiſter'd cell (Where deep-felt fighs, and woes eternal dwell: Hmmur'd , the tender Heloiſa ſighs , The tear for ever flowing from her eyes | Thoſe eyes that ſparkled with unuſal light! That lovely form that ever gave delight ! Is now a lonely victim to deſpair, Her ſole companions wretchedneſs and care : No weeping parents lift their tender arms; No mourning brother ſoothes thy ſoft alarms; No loving fiſter charms the ſorrowing hour; No friends alleviate, nor-no tender pow'r, 'Tis Abelard, the wretch the cauſe of all; From him aroſe my Heloiſa's fall. Oh! had oblivion wrapt my guilty flame, No crime had tarniſh'd my unſully'd name. Too late I view the horror of my crime, And torture cloſes on the heel of time. Yet when I heard the ſavage, ſtern decree, 'Twas trifling pain to what I felt for thee. - But horror ſec my Heloiſa led, ABELARD ºro HELOISE. 239 Drooping, ſupported, pale, and almoſt dead! Bleeding I lay—ſhe farts, and gaz'd around, Then fainting, fell upon the tender ground. No kind aſſiſtance find my ſhrieks my cries? To ev'ry ſhriek an anſwering ſhriek replies. My plaintive eyes to heav'n I raiſe in vain, My pray'rs but prove as fruitleſs as my pain. There as I lay, all languid on the ground, An image that humanity diſown'd, How unconcern’d th’ Aſſaſſins ſmil'd around ! My blood ſtill flowing on the bluſhing ground ; There too my Heloiſe was lifeleſs laid ; A ſcene to melt barbarity, diſplay’d. So the poor lamb, when wand'ring far away, A tiger's unſuſpecting eaſy prey, In vain ſhe bleats her agonizing cries? He gripes her faſt, and as he ſmiles, ſhe dies. Why did not heav'n its loudeſt thunders roll, And ſtrike the mean barbarian to the ſoul? Hold, hold, my heart! Ah think 'twas heaven's decree, Should heav'n have chang'd its high awards for thee ? I charge thee, Heloiſe, diſpel thy tears, Smile on the paſt, and chaſe your tender fears; An hour may come, when I ſhall view thoſe charms, g * 240 ABELARD to HELOISE, .* And once again may claſp thee in my arms. A thought, alas ! embitters ſtill my mind: Ah cruel deed l—for wilt thou then be kind 2 I can no more with love's warm tranſports haſte, Melt in your arms, and claſp thy yielding waiſt: Perhaps ſome youth, whom nature deigns to grace With lively wit, and elegance of face, May chaſe ſad Abelard's neglected frame, Doom'd l—doom'd to wander in eternal ſhane: Forgive the ravings of a mind diſtreſt Forgive the tranſport of a feeling breaſt ! T need not aſk it, 'tis already giv'n ; She ſmiles my pardon, and her ſmile is heav'n' When fancy roves on joys that now are fled, And raptur'd bliſs that is for ever dead, Think of it—as a viſionary dream, -- Where things deceiving, are not what they ſeem, Farewel, my Heloiſe! thy load ſuſtain : Pray to thy God, nor Abelard diſdain : Tho' baniſh'd, think he loves thee more and } more ; Keep his idea—yet thy God adore! Then may ſome bard, in pity to our woe, Feel in his breaſt a ſoft compaſſion glow, ABELARD To HELOISE. 24; May thus inſcribe our ſolitary tomb;— . “In this cold marble, ſnatch'd by early doom, “Here ABELARD and HELOISA reſt : “They die united—tho’ they liv'd diſtreſt!” ) 242 A B E L A R D to E L o I s A. By Mr. SAMUEL BIRCH. * Lost Abelard thus greets his widow’d wife, Her, next ador'd to him, who gave us life. # * * * * * * * * * * * * ~ * Could I have thought, when not deſign'd for you, That tale our mutual ſuff’ring would renew , (Wherein I fondly ſtrove my own to blend, To mitigate the mis’ry of a friend) Such pointed anguiſh had not mark'd each line, Nor wak'd thy ſorrow by repeating mine : Careleſs I wrote, in heart-felt colours drew Balm to my friend, but almoſt death to you. May this my laſt thy wand'ring thoughts com- , poſe, And point that heav'n, repentance only knows! When firſt affliction gain’d ſuch baneful pow'r, And rage and ſhame ſucceeded ev'ry hour; When from our fight proſperity withdrew , And with her ev'ry earthly comfort flew : I ſought aſylum, urg’d by dire diſgrace, • ABELARD to ELOISA. 243 And hop'd it moſt in this ſequeſter'd place: Sought by religion to ſuppreſs the flame, Which mock'd my manhood, and increas'd my ſhame; t Hop'd to extirpate each familiar pain', Reflection oft' embitter'd o'er again; Firmly reſolv’d, tranſported with my fate, Not to forget alone, but e'en to hate. Alas ! how fleeting ſuch attempts, and vain, With more than uſual heat I blaze again! Sharp through my brain each paſt enjoyment flies, And mem'ry yields, what-impotence denies. Ah! what avails it? though of means bereft, To feed the flame, the ſoft idea's left: Officious, filence, which ſhould ſooth my care, But aids reflection, and admits deſpair. From thee, as from a foe, I quick remove ; How ſoon that name is ſoften’d into Hove Alas ! how ſoon our ſolemn vows decay, Should aught , but heav'n, our wav'ring minds betray ! But very rare, in convents you will find, That ſacred walls can ſanctify the mind; Or that the ſoul, unſhaken in its pray’r, Makes God and God alone its idol there. Fear it, my Eloiſa, fear my love, To blaſt with earthly joys thy joys above; Y 2 2. *. -- 244 ABELARI) To ELOISA. Nor ſeek , aſſuming, ſweet religion's name, To veil-the deed, and º the ſhame. Oh! that I once had felt this poyv'r divine, And with that knowledge hā, àighten’d thine ! How happy then but other fates deny'd w To juſtify thee, as my virtuous bride. I ſaw, and lov’d ; with tranſport I ſurvey’d The guiltleſs truſt, and afterwards betray'd : Pour’d pois'nous doctrine in your greedy ear, And ruin’d what (by heav'n) I held moſt dear; Explor'd the ſweet receſſes of your mind, Nor ſaw, that love was lurking cloſe behind ; That ruling paſſion over all prevail'd, And triumph'd moſt, where moſt my precepts fail’d. Such was our fate, by various tempeſts toſt, When you your virtue, I my freedom loſt. All-pitying Heav'n when will diſtraction, ceaſe ? Will neither tears nor faſts procure me peace 2 Behold, how proſtrate here in duſt I lie, And on repentance caſt thy gracious eye || Alas! in vain; for I but feign to grieve, Which may mankind, but cannot heav'n, de- ceive : **** No outward ſanctity can grace obtain, While thoughts within the ſolemn form profane. ABELARD To ELOISA. 245 - When in the choir, where heav'nly hymns unite, To fill th’ enraptur'd ſoul with pure delight : Where lift'ning angels catch the pleafing ſound, And virgins' tears bedev the hallow’d ground; Approving conſcience gladdens all but me, My abſent heart ſtill whiſp'ring nought but thee. Oh! that the means were eaſy as the will, How would I fly, each cov'nant to fulfill Or that with thee my paſſion would remove, And abſence be the ſepulchre of love When love appears, all other thoughts decay, As ſpectres vaniſh at approach of day. Spare, Eloiſe, ah! ſpare thy eloquence, Nor with reproof awake my keeneſt ſenſe: Name not, bright Saint, thy conſtancy again, That cauſe of ſo much pleaſure, ſo much pain: Too juſt are all thy heav'nly charms pourtray’d, Too oft’ reproach my guilt, without thy aid : Thy boundleſs gifts are rooted in my breaſt, Thy virgin favour deeper than the reſt. How bleſ; the youth, whoſe ſoul compoſure knows, Nor melts with wiſhes, nor with lapture glows : Kindling no paſſion, is mot paſſion’s ſlave; Whoſe great dependence lies beyond the grave : Content ſeeks ſhelter in his peaceful breaſt, **- 246 ABELARD To ELOISA. Such ſure (if aught below can be ) is bleſt: But doubly curſt, who, ſeeking love's ſoft fires, In endleſs pangs of jealouſy expires. What art thou, love 2 what art, beyond a name 2 Deceitful paſſion viſionary flame ! Which, ſave ſome tranfient joys, by heav'n art ſent, Beneath the name of bliſs, as puniſhment. Nor fame , nor honour, dur'd my pliant ſoul, But 'twas thy wond’rous beauty caught the whole, That air divine, majeſtic eaſe and grace, Thoſe earthly ſtars that dazzle on thy face, That ſweet diſcourſe, which my attentive ear, Tho' once heard fatal, liſt’ning ſtill would hear. Such were thy charms, not one alone, but all, Could I but yield, when theſe adorn'd my fall? No more, my Eloiſa, we'll deſpair, But make our only hope, our only care : Let us the world, its foibles, all diſclaim, And no more know mankind, but by the name. Swift let us fly, our comfort to redeem, While Providence permits an op'ning gleam. O might our hearts this bleſ: compoſure keep, Not for their ſorrows, but their ſins to weep ; I might, indeed, with joy deſire to dwell ABELARD to ELOISA. 247 Within thoſe walls, my ſoul muſt love ſo well; Form'd by my hand, and foſter'd by my care, Whoſe humble ſhrines no ſplendid off'rings bear, But thro’ the fimple-ſtructur'd arch is heard, The ſolemn pray’r by penitence preferr'd, And ſtrains ſeraphic from the altar riſe, Meek, unadorn'd, the ſoul’s pure ſacrifice? Together we would tread the rugged road, Without one ſigh, but what aroſe to God; My virgin flock ſhould learn their woes to bear, My precept ‘ſoothe them, and my preſence ſhare, Nor check a paſſion, nor a toil purſue, But what they ſaw their ſorrowing paſtor do. Thus calm, no oriſon in vain could plead, But bleſſings follow ev'ry pious bead; *Till worn at laſt, and many a ſtruggle o'er, Our kindred ſpirits would offend no more; Our duſt repoſe, from fruitleſs anguiſh freed, And Paraclete be all the tomb we need. But whither will my fever'd fancy roam 2 Alas! I dare not leave my ſtated home– We dare not meet;—thy half-extinguiſh’d fire Would flame impetuous with renew’d deſire; The dawn of peace, and each diviner joy, The mad’ning tumult would at once deſtroy 1 Shall we ſuppreſs religion in its dawn 2 Pluck off its roſe, and only leave the thorn 1. * # * 248 ABELARD to ELOISA. l Or obſtimately cruſh the infant root, And blight the bloſſom, ere we know the fruit? Still blind, perfiſt in fins , when unforgiv'n 2 Renounce our vows, when regiſter'd in heav'n? Shall I ſo ſoon forſake this laſt abode 7 If ſo—ah ! teach me how I can avoid ! The following vengeance of an injur’d God J Let me conjure thee, by our deareſt ties, Our future hopes, our common miſeries' Oh! ſuffer me to fly impending fate, * And ſeek for ſhelter, ere I ſeek too late. Thy greateſt love will be, thy love to ceaſe, My mem'ry, vows, and all of mine releaſe ; For now I fear no rival’s urgent claim, But God, that awful witneſs of my ſhame. With ſecret tranſport I your charms reſign : With equal joy you catch the flame divine: 'Twill ſoon repay each glorious ſtruggle here, The bliſs as certain, as the vow's fincere. Then antedate that tranſport of the ſoul, Oh eager haſte to reach the ſacred goal 1 Surrounding ſeraphs ſhall with joy convey A charge more bright, more lovely far than they, But mark the ſolemn contract it requires, gº Which heav'n demands, and piety, inſpires. It is, that Abelard (O painful debtſ) t Muſt Eloiſa and her charms forget: * ABELARD to ELOISA. 249 No leſs; that Eloiſa muſt reprove All buſy ſymptoms of returning love : Nay more; ſuppreſs all inward ſenſe, that gives Forgotten Abelard, or hints he lives. *- He lives —tho' ſcarcely it, deſerves that name, He lives!—but to excite a purer flame ! For could'ſ thou but behold my alter'd ſtate, How would thy unavailing ſenſe abate, Each varied feature new ſenſations move, Enflame devotion, and extinguiſh love With what prevailing eloquence would ſpeak My waſted image, and my woe-worn cheek * Theſe eyes, which ſlowly to conſume their fight, Weep thro’ the day, and watch the waſting night, And on the croſs their feeble luſtre ſhed, Sunk in the caverns which their grief has made, - Would teach thee, what my aſhes ſoon muſt do, If yet theſe ſail thy paſſion to ſubdue. When borne to Paraclete for hallow’d reſt, tº. (For ſo determin'd is my laſt requeſt) * As trembling you my ſepulchre ſurvey, Adown thy cheek ſome pious drops ſhall ſtray; Convinc'd by that late ſpectacle of woe, How vain all paſſion is for joys below ! Oh, ſlight it not, but view the trembling thread, That holds deſiruction doubtful o'er our head: Moſt certain is it, we muſt now adore 250 ABELARD To ELOISA. Him, who neglected, thinks of us no more; Treat with neglect what lately we ador’d, - And dawning grace inſpire cach thought and word; Ere we can gain the paradiſe in view, Or ere expect ſalvation will enſue. My doubtful frailty I will now confeſs, And paint each deſp'rate effort of diſtreſs. Loſt as I was to nature's nobleſt plan; - At beft, a mere apology for man: Scarce ſuffer'd love's ecſtatic joys to know, Ere forc’d the dear-bought pleaſure to forego; The common bliſs, the meaneſt worm enjoy'd, Stopt in its courſe, and in its ſpring deſtroy'd : What could I do, conſum’d in fruitleſs fires, My pow'r leſs perfect, ſtronger my deſires 2 In haſte I ſtrove, at leaſt, to hide thy charms, And tempt thee blooming to religion's arms : Within a convent chaftly to retire, To ſtop the doubts of reſtleſs, vain defire : Left ſome ſucceſsful rival ſhould partake What dire revenge oblig'd me to forſake. Heav'n with what eaſe thy ſwift conſent I ſtole; With ſoft perſuaſion won thy yielding ſoul! But while thy bliſs my ſole concern appear'd, ‘Twas but thy infidelity I fear'd : *- ABELARD to ELOISA. 25 ſ Forgive, my Eloiſe, forgive that fear, The offspring of affection and deſpair. Could I have ſeen that perfect work of heav'n To ſome warm youth's prevailing wiſhes giv'n ; Seen him, in ecſtacy, poſſeſs thy charms, And fink ſecurely in thy folding arms; Whilſt I, mere ſhadow of man's rightful claim, In all deficient, though in form the ſame, A prey to jealouſy, condemn'd to ſigh , And e'en refus’d the privilege to die, Rapture had imag'd in its firſt degree, *- Now long ſince flown from Eloiſe and me; While fancy wander'd each deluſion o'er, Which charm'd me once, but now will charm its more? Such thoughts too fiercely ran through ev'ry vein, That danger paſt, I brave all other pain. Thy veil more laſting happineſs affords, Than all the prov’d uncertainty of words: Beneath that ſhelter ſafe ideas rove, * Excluding all untimely thoughts of love. * With kindneſs, oft' you'd liſten to my pray'rs, Kindneſs, which could but ſpeak with gath'ring **. tears : oft', half complying with my urg'd requeſt; Reply, my fav'rite convent was the beſt: § 252 ABELARD to ELOISA. * The more I preſs'd, more beauteous far you grew, Nor dar'd I mention, what I found too true: All means alike, embrac'd without delay, By night my ſtudy, and purſuit by day : No taſk too ſmall, that ſeem'd to aid my cauſe, And none ſo great to give a moment's pauſe: E’en bribes (excuſe my bluſhes now) prevail'd, Where ev'ry leſs ſucceſsful motive fail'd ; 'Twas gold thy fiſter’s real thoughts conceal’d, whoſe well-feign'd happineſs taught thee to yield. Hail! ſacred walls, that Eloiſe contain Hail! dreary manſion, form'd to ſoften páin . Qh ! what repoſe in thee ſuſpicion finds, Effectual antidote of doubtful minds ! Long may religion hold her empire there, And virtue guard thee, its peculiar care 'Twas I that let thee to the hallow'd ſhrine, Saw you embrace, and kiſs the cloth divine; Heard thy ſweet trembling voice diſtinctly ſwear To fly mankind, and cloſe your ſorrows there: Then on the holy croſs you fix’d your eyes, A doubtful, loving, willing ſacrifice. Confirm that now, and force thy tardy will, Which ſtill neglected, will be fatal ſtill. Hard is the taſk, I own, t’ exclude entire, \ ABELARD to ELOISA. 253 Nor leave one ſpark of ſuch a mighty fire : Yet not ſo hard, but pray'rs may ſoon obtain, . Pray'rs built on faith, elſe pray'rs themſelves are *- vain. You call me Maſter; oh forbear that name , For what I injur’d once, I cannot claim : Call me not Father, that my guilt may hide A term too horrid, that of Parricide. Why by a Brother's name our fortunes join, When but my crimes alone reſemble thine 2 Am I your Huſband? There indeed I’m curſi, Since fates and ſame have join’d tº inflict their * worſt, Since then thoſe ſacred titles you have wrong’d, To honour me, to whom they ne'er belong’d, Oh! blot them out, and for the guilt atone, Diſplay forth characters indeed my own; Paint murder, rapine, all you can invent, And point out me, each vice to repreſent. Hark! for methinks I hear an angel's voice Entreat your care, nor murmur at the choice; When words like theſe ſalute your op'ning ear, Are you not raviſh’d with a ſound ſo dear? When heav'n enjoins , can Eloiſe forſake? Or doubt its promiſe, when her all's at ſtake? Slight not its love, more pure than falling ſnow, - ) 254 ABELARD to ELOISA. Nor loſe the ſhadow of a thought below, Left your torn breaſt relent in vain , and prove flow fierce that anger is, which once was love, When the laſt trump ſhall wake the gen'ral dead, And juſtice ſhake her balance o'er your head;. When heav'n's great Judge ſhall, take his awful ſeat , And all arraign'd ſtand trembling at his feet; When e'en the beft ſhall doubtful wait the nod, And guilt appall'd ſtart at th' approach of God; What can you plead, who have his grace denied ? His—who for your complete ſalvation died ? How will you ſhudder at this juſt decree, “Depart, ye curſed, far depart. from me! Who, when I ſtrove tº obſtruct your fatal way, Deſpis'd my doctrine, and went more aſtray; Since then my precepts could no ear obtain, Your griefs I hear not, and your pray'rs are vain; In endleſs torments be your pride o'ercome, Unalterably fixt your everlaſting doom l’’ Oh! think how glorious 'tis to brave diſtreſs, And, ſpite of dangers, dare at happineſs: Still more, how much more glorious to ſucceed, * * ABELARD To ELOISA. 255 When woes unnumber'd magnify the deed! Let ſweet content your recent life endear, Welcome the ſcene, familiarize the ſphere; The croſs of Chriſt embrace with dear delight, “Whoſe yoke is eaſy, and whoſe burden light;” Not think eur ſuff’rings are his wrath's decree, But view his mercy in our miſery; "Twill ſoon be clos'd, life's mockery decay, And death unbar the gates of endleſs day, Then, while above in ecſtacy we gaze On our redeemer, and record his praiſe, Supremely taſte of joys unknown before, And gather tranſports, that will fade no more ; Our new-born ſouls, o'erwhelm'd with bliſs, ſhall be * Plung’d in the maze of vaſt etermity. Oh! farewell, Eloiſe—no more but this; Preſerve the relics of my laſt advice : May heav'n permit , as once my love could guide, With like ſucceſs my zeal may now preſide : By my example, be my precepts fir’d, With ardor glow, with energy inſpir’d Should an unguarded thought (which heav'n fore- fend ) Dart 'croſs converfion, and awhile ſuſpend a . 256 ABELARD to ELOISA. Think on me now, as brooding o'er my woes, And worn in pray'rs this hated life to cloſe. Oh! gaze not back on far-flown fatal youth, But charm'd with truſt in this experienc'd truth— * That hope in future life reflects more ſolid bliſs, Than e'en the keenefi pleaſures yield, poſſeſ; a - in this. 257 * A B E L A R D to EHLO I S.A. By Mr. SEPMoUR. WRITT EN IN THE YEAR 1777. Qualis populea moerens philomela ſub umbra Amiſos gueritur foetus, quos durus -arator Obſervans, nido implumes detraarit; at illa Flet noctem, ramoque Jedens miſèrabile carmen 1ntegrat, et moeſtis late loca gueſtibus im- plet. VIRG. No, Eloiſa, let each cell declare, Where oft I bend in agonizing pray’r, If cold my blood, my pulſe inactive grown, I am indeed allied to lifeleſs ſtone. Yet, were all ſenſe of am’rous joy ſuppreſt, Did memory no fading trace ſuggeſt, Sighs with ſuch paſſion breath'd, and words of fire, * Might warm the coldeſt with unchaſte defire. Dearer than ſiſter I can I think of thee, From tumult, rapture, and diſtraction free? I view thee ſtill in all thy virgin charms, Fair as when firſt I won thee to my arms; Again I view thee to a convent hurl’d, Y * t 258 - ABELARD to ELOISA. Cut off from me, and ſhut from all the world; Then I recall that fatal ſcene of night— But what you know too well, why ſhould I write 2 - I thought indeed, within theſe ſolemn rounds, Where the walls echo with religious ſounds, With piety the finners ſelf might glow, And learn to ſcorn the love of aught below. My wayward heart how partially I knew, And the dire tyranny that lovers rue! When the keen lightning of a charming eye, Draws from the ſoul the deep impaſſion'd figh. Yet what inconſtancy the world diſplays Arm'd with keen perj'ry man delighted ſtrays. E’en thoſe are fickle in the firſt degree, Who, but in that , too much reſemble me; But as I often ſwore, ſo now I find , No common bias ſways my conſtant mind. Not volumes where each heav'nly cure is found, Supply the balm to mitigate my wound. Nor penitential tears, nor faſts controul The frantic ardor of my erring ſoul. Am I, the wretch who with infidious art Allur'd you firſt from virtue to depart, Am I invited penitents to teach, ABELARD To ELOISA. 2.59 And what my practice diſavow'd to preach 7 My practice then, and my temptations now, War in wild combat with a veſtal’s vow. Ah! no, too ſkilful once in am’rous fraud, My tongue but feebly pleads the cauſe of God; For, while I point to realms of endleſs light, I figh for earth, and downward bend my fight. But my fair ſophiſt Eloiſa means (Retorting arms I lent) to guilty ſcenes My ſoul again with fury to impel, And kindle all the ſubtle fire of hell. 32 Pardon, thus rudely that thy mame I treat, Lovelier than light! than muſic's ſelf more ſweet! Which never ſhould be mention'd but with joy, And holy lutes of angels might employ. Could Eloiſa now that face ſurvey, — ` Where mirth in triumph ſhone for ever gay; How would ſhe ſtart from the diſguſtful ſhade Of Abelard, in horrid veſts array'd : No ſparkles from his eyes emit the ſoul, But down my ghaſtly cheeks dire ſorrows roll. Now ſacrilegious ev'ry ſofter care, I count my matin beads and freeze at pray’r. The awful Judge I ſee, my ſentence hear, Condemn'd to ſcenes that hope muſt never cheer, Where fiery darkneſs, grief that hardens, reign, Y 2 26o Ai}ELARD to ELOISA. gº And wretches loath an adamantine chain. Still deeper plung'd in woe they ruſh away, Down, down, ten thouſand fathoms from the day, Ten thouſand thouſand more, till rack'd they lie, Beyond the trembling ſearch of fancy's eye, Forbear to love what ſhould provoke your rage, Think of my coldneſs, treachery, and age. Inſatiate ſparks of ever young defire, An object vaſt and durable require. Love God; he is—who what he is can ſpeak, With whom compar'd all nature's pow'r is weak 2 Could the fight pierce this dome of azure ſkies, Which hides his luſtre from our mortal eyes. The height of beauty muſt deform'd appear, And folly afl that we flyle wiſdom here. Forbear the hallow’d ſtrain of friend and fire,’ To the baſe captive of impure defire; Deem not ſo dire a wretch of human kind, But view without the veil a demon's mind. I ſhut you from the world with envious pain, . Thus in my piety I prov’d prophane. .* Brother and huſband will you call the foe, That in your boſom fix’d the thorn of woe?' Why ſhould I fead ſuch tender names from you? Th' aſſaſſin of your youth, or worſe, my due. To God I gave you when you took the veil, Nor fear'd a rival, though I thought you frail; ABELARD to ELoISA. 26 i For who dares violate the ſacred dome, rv Where abſtinence and pray’r have fixt their home? Your huſband God, no jealouſy is mine; To a celeſtial rival I refign. Serenely then prolong your blameleſs days; With meek-eyed charity fing hymns of praiſe. Ah! Abelard, ſhould this induce belief, Your eyes would ſtream with ſwifter rills of *. grief. Did you reſolve to write, with pious zeal, To quench her love, and your exilement ſeal? No, not to heav'n itſelf I can reſign, . On earth at leaſt ſhe ſhall be wholly mine; Nor floods, nor fire, nor force of kindred foes, When ſhe invites, the charmer flould oppoſe: To my deſerted mourning love I'll fly, Preſs her warm heart, and on her kiſſes die. Sever'd an age, the thought once more to meet, Once more our old endearments to repeat, Inſpires with hatred to reſtraining walls, My vow diſſolves, and all the man recalls. Briſk tides of joy ruſh through my throbbing * veins And my heart dances to unuſual ſtrains. Oh! I could gaze for ever on her eyes $ Thence quaff delicious amorous ſupplies 2. ſº 262 ABELARD To ELOHSA. * Into my ſoul; till ſpeech in vain would ſhow The mighty tranſports that my breaſt o'erflow ; Till left the wiſh that riots void of rein, To fighs and looks and bluſhes to explain. Yet looks and fighs but half expreſs a flame; Such wond’rous beauty ſomething more might claim. Though who that e'er had known the fears and pains, gº. Diſguſts and dangers, doubts, delays, diſdains, "Which always wait upon thy ſervice, love, Beneath thy bamers would a champion move 2 Henceforth then let us baniſh from our breaſt Viſions of pleaſure, enemies to reſt, Tumultuous oceans where the ſoul is toſt, *Till reaſon yield the helm, and virtue's loſt. O grace ineffable ! O faith ſublime ! Unlimited in ſpace, uncheck’d by time, Ye gloriouſly aſcend in bold career, Beyond the bound'ries of this narrow ſphere; With rapture viewing heav'n's immortal king, The beſt of benefits to man ye bring; A bliſs fincere, which nothing can deſtroy, Which angels in triumphant light enjoy; Winter it ſmooths, makes ſummer lovelier glow, And paradiſe unfading plants below. \ f ABEL ARD To ELOISA. 263 What bleſſings on the humble abbot wait! Above proud monarchs in their anxious ſtate, . He leaves a world that fings ſelf-flatt’ring ſongs, Whoſe ſmiles are ſnares, whoſe benefits are wrongs; To hold with God, among the firſt-born race, Perpetual intercourſe of praiſe and grace. Doubt ſolves her veil, and zeal her lamp ſup- plies, At joys immortal ſparkling in 1his eyes; Welcome as morning to the wand’rer's ſight, More pure than ſilver ſtreams of lunar light. With holy pray’r heav'n's portäls he unbars, And ever watches, like th' unwearied ſtars. Alms are his hoard, from moth and ruſt ſe- cure, His brethren are the faithful and the poor. His ſoul imbibes fimplicity's mild ray, Direct effulgence from eternal day ! He fathoms truth, and for his darling flock, Draws living water from a heav'nly rock; for penitents he heaves condoling ſighs, Next to their tears a grateful ſacrifice! Though ſkill'd in tongues of men and ſeraphs’ hore, Meek charity he claſps, and prizes more ; Hope, ever fair, his bliſsful dreams inſpires , , 264 ABELARD to ELOISA. And faith excludes e'en innocent defires; Sums riſe to view this habitant of clay, * To light approaching nearer ev'ry day: *…-- Till, “Hither " calls the Lamb; the Spirit cries, “By ſoft tranſition mingle with the ſkies I’’ \ But what dire tumults kindle in my breaſi, Marring ideas of celeſtial refif * Still muſt this heart, O Eloiſa, prove The wretched theatre of guilt and love? By our youth's flight, by Eloiſa’s wrongs, By the worſt calumny of pious tongues, By that abhorred night's conſummate woes, Oh! ſpare me, love, and leave me to repoſe. Alas! the recreant's pray’r that pow'r diſdains, He fires my heart, and triumphs in my pains; All Eloiſa riſes to my view, My former wounds, now deepen'd, bleed anew. What charms with thine, my ſpouſe, can 1 com- pare 2 A woman’s fondneſs and a cherub’s air ; A bluſh of mildneſs breaking on 'the fight, Like emanating beams of new-born light; A breath more fyeet than all Arabia blows; Lips that excel the ruby and the roſe ; On theſe, as bees on fragrant roſes play, ABELARD to Eloisa. 265 I could in kiſſes wear my life away. Thy eyes diffuſe inimitable fire; Thy voice might warble with a ſeraph’s lyre, Soft as expiring notes at difiance die, * Ant gentle as the murmur of a figh. But, oh! thy breaft, inſpiring vaſt delight, Luxuriant fancy whelms with dazzling white; Thy graceful motion and thy ſhape conſpire To feed the flame of love’s immortal fire. With wonder I grow giddy while I gaze, And loſe my ſoul in beauty’s charming maze. Hence 1 gay deluſions of warm fancy’s pow'r, Years of remorſe are paid for riot's hour. The bluſh that kindled and reprov’d defire, The whiſper’d languiſh, and the waking fire, The ſoul-diffuſing ſoftneſs of the dove, With all the melting luxury of love, Can charm no more—But in their place ariſe Dire horrors, ſcalding tears, and ceaſeleſs fighs. " Ye pathleſs caverns, in your hopeleſs gloom , , A monſter from the face of man intomb 1 Whelm him, ye ſeas ye winds, diſperſe his frame ! Wrap him, ye lightnings, in your livid flame! Unfold, ye furies, your dark realms below, And ſnatch from memory my guilt and woe Z 266 ABELARD To ELOISA. * When ſolemn night led on her ſtarry train, While momentary ſlumbers held their reign Before the altar late methought I ſtood, Diſpenſing to the crowd celeſtial food. What time I ſhar'd the Saviour's myſtic ſign, I felt conviction, energy divine ! I look'd, and lo! the God who mangled bore The fins of humankind , debas'd no more. **. All-glorious from the ſepulchre he roſe With gifts for men, and benefits for foes. Around him angels, cluſt’ring with their wings, Struck their bold harps, and hail'd him King of . kings, Devolving in full tide the void along; High-warbled melody from ſoothing ſong. * Satan, like lightning, at that moment fell, In adamantine bonds conſign'd to hell; He fell, and mounting, ſmil’d heav'n's victor lord, Bright clouds inveſted him, and ſaints ador’d. Glitt’ring with foil-leſs gems a crown he wore, Whoſe diadem was pointed thorn before; The croſs triumphant blaz'd with tenfold noon, Beneath his feet eclips'd, the ſun and moon; Mild youth and majeſty ſhone in his face, His eyes diffus’d unutterable grace. “Hither all ye who thirſt for life,” he cried ABELARD to ELoISA. 26, “And live, abundantly with health ſupplied.” - within me then a gentle whiſper ſtole, “Now baniſh Eloiſa from thy ſoul.” A dawning wiſh to lend its feeble aid, And for releaſe from love almoſt I pray’d. The Godſ I follow’d with my aching fight, Till nature fainted in the panting flight. With ſaints immaculate above he reigns, And finners leaves to voluntary ſtains. How worthleſs is the ſearning of the ſchools! No floic yet was made by rigid rules; The higheſt efforts of the read’ning art, That teach the tongue to combat with the heart, Like wind to fire, dilate the fatal flame, We quickly imitate the men we blame. Crown'd with the honors won in wiſdom’s field, Could I have thought that I to love ſhould yield, Who painted virtue fair, and bade aſpire Where ſaints refide, while angels tune the lyre? But, Eloiſa, my repoſe's foe The ſwift tranſition of my cares you know : How ſoon philoſophy reſign'd its arms, And rhetoric was brib'd to plead thy charms. What cruel fate my torment then approv’d T I gaz'd, admir’d' and, ere I knew I lov’d. Yet, ſcorning hypocritic ſages' lore, a Z 2 268 ABELARD to ELoISA. \ I ne'er had ſtoop'd to paſſion's lure before: Objects that others fancied fair, I deem'd , For features merely with diſgrace eſteem’d, But wit, irradiating a form divine, My nobler paſſion fir’d at virtue's ſhrine. What arguments were us’d need I repeat, (The tutor turn’d a ſuppliant at your feet) Till you contented gen’rouſly to rove, f Through all the labyrinth of flow'ry love? Delightful day ! when, ev'ry doubt refign'd, , We liv'd but one, and mingled mind with mind; Eſteem’s warm pledges form'd our dear employ 3 While words were found too rude to ſpeak our joy. My rapid murmurs prov'd my trembling frame Glow'd then with more than friendſhip's feeble flame. . dº In ſable chains looſe flow’d your graceful hair, With pride I view’d what might a king en- ſnare; Your lovely boſom heav'd with frequent fighs, And all your ſoul ſpoke rapture in your eyes. What ſmiles remov’d each trace of groundleſs fear ! # - What broken whiſpers thrill'd your lower's ear! Sweet as the fragrance of th’ exhaling roſe, When vernal zephyr o'er the garden blows; ABELARD To ELOISA. 269 So ſoftly gales, that lull the birds, pervade The lone receſſes of the moon-light ſhade; Till our fond hearts on floods of bliſs were toft, And in the boundleſs tranſport life was loſt. Sometimes a victim to love's ſcorching flame, I dare e'en now thy delicacy blame. “We ſtill had happy liv'd above the crowd,” I cry, “had Eloiſa not been proud :” Forgetting that a paſſion ſo ſublime, Will ſpread thy name through long-revolving time : Poets unborn ſhall in thy praiſe combine; What once was criminal ſhall be divine. Heav'ns ! when for ever in a dreary cell, With penitence and pray’r you vow’d to dwell, With what a glow of youth, and ſmiling face, Confirm'd ſerenity and heav'nly grace, You bade adieu to earth’s contemned toys, A candidate alone for deathleſs joys. This from my boſom might diſtruſt remove, And vain the dread of earthly rivals prove. Yet in a convent laſtingly immur’d, By friends forſaken, and from love ſecur'd, While youth with ſprightly pulſe beat in the blood, And all her roſes were but in the bud: 270 ABELARD To ELOISA. **. what ſtern-ey’d ſtoic could refuſe a tear? What ſaint unmov’d could her profeſſion hear? From fields where flow'rs perpetual bloom diſplay, From fields of roſy light and endleſs day, Spirits of reſt with viſions bleſs her nights: Wifions, bright antepaſis of heav'n's delights! With ſolemn Cynthia vigils oft I keep, And o'er ſome melancholy marble weep. While thoughts deſultory, like billows, roll, That range the globe, and viſit either pole } Preſent, or paſt, alike dejects my ſoul. "Twixt pain and pleaſure what a ſcene of ſtrifel But woe, predominating, clouds my life. My fortune early from my friends disjoin'd, And all my av'rice riches of the mind. (For what are india's gems and ſparkling ore, To wiſdom's charms and wit’s unfading ſtore?) Mad miſchief meditating, envy yiew'd, * Religious ſlander ſoon my ſteps purſu'd; Then Eloiſa's love, my crucl doom, And, living, both pale tenants of a tomb. For my poor boſom only now remain, Exhauſtleſs ſorrows and diſtracting pain; All the gay ſcenes, that were my conſtant theme, ABELARD To ELOISA. 2y1 Have left me, like a fair deluſive dream. Songs once I wrote, now preaching is my care, For am’rous paſtimes penance doom'd to bear. He who claſp'd beauty, crown'd with flow'ry bloom, lies in a dormitory's lonely gloom, Where level’d heroes, ſleeping grandfires, ſpread Through the ſtill cloiſters monumental dread. A wretched exile on a barb’rous ſhore, My native language charms my ear no more. From marble hearts what comfort could I gain? I tell my ſuff'rings to the ſtormy main : As if the ſtormy main would milder grow, And ſympathiſe with tearful tales of woe. Could my dear Eloiſe the abbey view, She would not think that ſacred name its due. What ornaments adorn the pompous doors; The feet of hinds, and horrid heads of boars: Of hideous animals the hides appear, The cells are cover'd with the ſkins of deer. No ſolemn bell re-echoes round the walls, But the ſhrill cock or dog to matins calls. On pamper'd fleeds with noiſy horns they bound, And pleaſure court upon forbidden ground. Yet theſe are venial faults to what I dread, The ſword ſuſpended at a ſlender thread. With loud abuſe they load, if I complain, 272 ABELARD to ELOISA. Then flee my fight, a froward titt'ring train : By my vaſt wrongs to merit I deſire s , And try to kindle piety’s chaſte fire. “Oh! God,” I cry, “from thy tranſcendent throne .* “Of light and life, make thy compaſſion known l’” .# But earth-born fighs ſoon interrupt my pray’r, And Eloiſa ſtill I fancy fair : A thouſand times I call on thy dear name, Each repetition fans my former flame. JLet my idea n'er from thee depart! Profoundly preſs the fignet on thy heart. The lover's idol-makes the ſoul its ſlave, And jealouſy ſways cruel as the grave. 'Tis grief, contempt, averſion, fierce deſire, A ſecret, but a ſure conſuming fire. Though I have vow’d to love thee never more, I here recant it: for I raſhly ſwore, O Eloiſa, can I coldly view The mighty debt of gratitude thy due? . What torture haſt thou ſpar'd me! if I fear Thy conſtancy, where doubts to none appear. Curſe on the ſavage author of my woe Friendſhip's warm pleaſures may he never know * ! ºrs ABELARD to ELOISA. 273 Damm'd to his coffers, may he ſtill ſuppoſe That all mankind are his united foes | Grant, Heav'n, that he may live a ling’ring date, Dreaded by children, cruſh'd by age's weight! May thieves diminiſh as he heaps his ſtore, And the vile dotard, fighing, gripe for more In his remembrance only leave his crime, No cheerful ſonnet to deceive the time ! Our preſent puniſhment we ſadly know, But ſhall we thus all future pain forego? Ah! no, repentance muſt to cleanſe begin, None enter heav'n's bright portals ſtain’d with fin. Far from the altar ſee! yon fair who feels The pow'r of penitence, and humbly kneels; Deep anguiſh in her countenance appears, Her treſſes looſe, her eyes diſſolv’d in tears: The horrors of the paſt aſſault her mind, Outcaſt of good I where can ſhe ſuccour find 7 Shall ſhe for pardon the great God implore, When 'tis almoſt a fin for her tº adore ? Her ſoul diſtracted at the proſpect lies, She wrings her hands, and only, “Mercy " cries; While Heav'n itſelf, affected at her woe, Abſolves her, and forbids her tears to flow. 274 ABELARD to ELOISA. Thus, Eloiſa, we'll forgiveneſs ſeek, Sighing petitions which we dare not ſpeak. And while from guilt we ſtruggle for releaſe, Who knows but God at laſt may whiſper peace? But ſouls like our's, ſo deeply plung’d in crime, Content recover, and refine by time; zº For abſent pleaſures often muſt we figh, And often muſt we wiſh, yet dread to die; Till hoary age, the meſſenger of truth! Detects the ſophiſtries that dazzled youth. As when his prince recalls an exile home, O'er deſart ſolitudes long forc’d to roam, Or toſt in tempeſts on the raging main, He views with joy his native ſhore again : Our crimes forgiv'n, ſuch is the bliſs to die. With ſuch a pleaſure ſouls remount the ſky. Oh! when this ſcene of vanity and guilt, Where pride hath loftily her palace built, Shall trembling own a far ſuperior pow'r, While vice grows pale within the wanton bow'r ; What time the ſun no more ſhall ſhed his ray, To gild the flow'ry ſcene, and give the day; Night call no more, from realms to ſage un- known, Her golden myriads round her azure throne; May we together riſe, devoid of ſhame, Our boſoms glowing with a nobler flame ! -- ABELARD to ELOISA. 275 Deck'd with new youth, and in unfading veſts, May the Spouſe welcome us, immortal gueſts 1 where only friendſhip no reverſe can fear, And, without anguiſh, triumphs love fincere; Where ever flows, unruffled, joy’s ſull tide, From God's own fount with pureſt ſtreams ſup-T plied. 276 y *- ſº- On Mr. POPE's Epiftle of E L O I S A To A B E L A R D. STRUCK with a ſenſe of Eloiſa's woe, And proud his homage to the ſex to ſhew ; One tuneful poet has ſo rais'd her name, That thoſe who envy, want the heart to blame. T H E E N D. - 277 *- BOOKS printed for R. SAMMER, Book- Jeller at Vienna. StERNE'. ſelect Works, containing his Senti- mental Journey, Letters, Triſiram Shandy and Koran, complete in 9 Volumes. 12. 798. with cuts. Lord Cheſterfield’s Advice to his Son, on Men and Manners : or, a new Syſtem of Educa- tion; in which the Principles of Politeneſs, the Art of acquiring a Knowledge of the World, with every Inſtruction neceſſary to form a Man of Honour, Virtue, Taſte, and Faſhion, are laid down in a plain, eaſy, familiar Manner, adapted to every Station and Capacity. The whole arraigned on a Plan entirely new. A new edition, to which are now added Lord Cheſterfield's Maxims for young Gentlemen. 18. 799. The Fables of John GAY, with an account 2 of the Author's Life. 2 Parts in 1 Volume. 12. 799. Eloiſa to Abelard, by Alexander Pope, Eſq. in Engliſh and German. 12. 799. ’278 - Yorick's Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, by Sterne. 4 Parts complete in 2 : Volumes; the ſecond edition , to which are added ſeveral other pieces by the ſame Author. 12. 798, with cuts. Sterne's Koran, or Eſſays, Sentiments and Cal- Himachies &c. complete in 1 Volume. 12. 798. Leonora, a Ballad translated from the Ger- man of Gottfried Auguſtus Bürgher by Spen- cer, Pye and Stanley; 12. 798. Letters of the Right Honourable Lady Mary Wortley Montague, written during her Tra- vels in Europe, Afia and Africa; a new edi- tion, to which are now added, by way of ſupplement, the poetical Works of the ſame Lady. 5 Volumes. 18. 797. The Man of Feeling. 18, 797. Wraxall’s Tour through ſome of the Northern parts of Europe, particularly Copenhagen, Stockholm and Petersburgh. 18. 797. Sterne's Letters to his Friends and Eliza, to which is added an appendix of 32 Letters never printed before. 2 Volumes. 12. 797. The Adventures of Telemachus the Son of Ulyſſes, from the French of Salignac de la Mothe-Fenelon, Archbiſhop of Cambray; to which are added the Adventures of Ariſto- -º- 279 nous. 2 Volumes. 18. 796, a new edition ca- - refully reviſed and corrected, with cuts. The Vicar of Wakefield, a Tale by Dr. Gold- ſmith; the ſecond edition. 18. 798, with cuts. Pope's Eſſay on Man, in Engliſh and German. 12. 798. Letters between Yorick and Eliza; the ſecond edition. 12. 797. , The Life and Opinions of Triſtram Shandy, complete in 4 Volumes. 12. 798, with cuts. The Chriſtian's Companion; being a Choice- Manual of devout Prayers for Catholicks. 18, 795. Robertſon’s Hiſtory of Charles V. 4. Volumees. 8. 787. Robertſon's Hiſtory of America. 3 Volumes. 8. 787. Robertſon's Hiſtory of Scotland. 2 volumes. 8. 788. The Hiſtory and Letters of Abelard and Eloiſa, with a particular Account of their Lives, Amours and Misfortunes, by John Hughes, Eſq. to which are added ſeveral other Poems by Mr. Pope and other Authors. 12. 1800. "#"Sº" | * -* :