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E L
L 0* I 's
IS A.
VOL.
I.
售
​
Frontispiece Vol. I.
F.I. Rouſeau
UNI
R. Gardelle pinx. 145.
Salvador Sculp
OF
MICK
E L O I SA:

OR,
A
S E RI E S
OF
ORIGINAL LETTERS
COLLECTED AND PUBLISHED BY
Mr. ROUS S E A U,
CITIZEN OF GENE VA.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
A NEW
E DI TION:
TO WHICH IS NOW FIRST ADDED,
THE SEQUEL OF JULIA;
OR,
THE NEW ELOIS A.
(Found amongſt the Author's Papers after his Deceaſe.)
TOGETHER WITH A PORTRAIT OF MONS. ROUSSEAU.

VOL.
I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY H. BALDWIN:
SOLD BY R. BALDWIN, IN PATER-NOSTER ROW ; AND
T. BECKET, IN PALL-MALL.
MDCC LXXXIV.

Ovo
9-19-45
53186
BE THE
grabado
odo
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
tu SD-9-27
GRE
REAT cities require publick theatres,
and romances are neceſſary to a corrupt
people. I ſaw the manners of the times,
and have publiſhed theſe letters. Would
to heaven I had lived in an age when l ought
rather to have thrown them in the fire!
Though I appear only as the editor of
this work, I confeſs I have had ſome ſhare
in the compoſition. But am I the ſole au-
thor, and is the entire correſpondence ficti-
tious ? Ye people of the world, of what im-
portance is it to you? Certainly, to you it
is all a fiction.
Every honeſt man will avow the books
which he publiſhes. I have prefixed my
name to theſe letters, not with a deſign to
appropriate them to myſelf, but that I
might be anſwerable for them. If they
Vol. I.
A
deſerve
ii
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
deſerve cenſure : let it fall on me: if they
have any merit, I am not ambitious of the
praiſe. If it is a bad book I am the more
obliged to own it: I do not wiſh to paſs
for better than I am.
As to the reality of the hiſtory, I de-
clare, that, though I have been ſeveral
times in the country of the two lovers, I
never heard either of Baron d'Etange,
his daughter, Mr. Orbe, Lord B-,
or Mr. Wolmar. I muſt alſo inform the
reader that there are ſeveral topographical
errours in this work; but, whether they
are the effects of ignorance or deſign, I
leave undetermined. This is all I am at
liberty to ſay: let every one think as he
pleaſes.
The book ſeems not calculated for an
extenſive circulation, as it is not adapted
to the generality of readers. The ſtyle
will offend people of taſte, to auftere men
the matter will be alarming, and all the
ſentiments will ſeein unnatural to thoſe who
know not what is meant by the word virtue
It ought to diſpleaſe the devotee, the libere
tine, the philoſopher ; to ſhock all the
ladies of gallantry, and to ſcandaliſe every
modeſt woman. By whom, therefore, will
it
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
111
it be approved ? Perhaps only by myſelf.
Certain I am, however, that it will not
meet with moderate approbation from any
one.
Whoever may reſolve to read theſe let-
ters ought to arm himſelf with patience
againſt faults of language, rufticity of
ſtile, and pedantry of expreſſion; he ought
to remember that the writers are neither
natives of France, wits, academicians,
nor philoſophers ; but that they are young
and unexperienced inhabitants of a remote
village, who iniſtake the romantick extra-
vagance of their own imagination for
philoſophy.
Why ſhould I fear to ſpeak my
thoughts? This collection of letters, with
all their gothick air, will better ſuit a mar-
ried lady than books of philoſophy: it may
even be of ſervice to thoſe who, in an irre-
gular courfe of life, have yet preſerved
fome affection for virtue, As to young
ladies, they are out of the queſtion ; no
chaſte virgin ever read a romance : but if
perchance any young girl fhould dare to
read a ſingle page of this, ſhe is inevitably
loft. Yet, let her not accuſe me as the
cauſe of her perdition: the miſchief was
done

A 2
iv AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
done before; and ſince ſhe has begun let
her proceed, for ſhe has nothing worſe to
fear.
May the auftere reader be diſguſted in
the firſt volume, revile the Editor, and
throw the book into the fire. I ſhall not
complain of injuſtice ; for probably, in his
place, I might have acted in the ſame
But if, after having read to the
end, any one ſhould think fit to blame
me for having publiſhed the book, let him,
if he pleaſes, declare his opinion to all the
world, except to me; for I perceive it
would never be in my power to eſteem ſuch
manner.
a man.
PRE-

P R E F A C CE
BY THE
T R A N S B A T 0 R.
IT
T is by no means my deſign to fwell the vo-
lume, or detain the reader from the pleaſure
he
may reaſonably expect in the peruſal of this
work: I ſay reaſonably, becauſe the author is a
writer of great reputation. My fole intention
is to give a conciſe account of my conduct in
the execution of this arduous taſk; and to antici
pate ſuch accuſations as may naturally be expect-
ed from fome readers: I mean thoſe who are but
imperfectly acquainted with the French lan-
guage, or who happen to entertain improper
ideas of tranſlations in general.
If I had choſen to preſerve the original title,
it would have ſtood thus: Julia, or the new
Eloiſa, in the general title page; and, in the par-
ticular one, Letters of two lovers, inhabitants of
a ſmall village at the foot of the Alps, collefted and
publiſhed, &c. Whatever objection I might
have to this title, upon the whole, my princi-
pal reaſon for preferring the name of Eloiſa to
that of Julia, was, becauſe the publick ſeemed
unanimous in diftinguiſhing the work by the
former
A 3
vi TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
room,
former rather than the latter, and I was the more
eaſily determined, as it was a matter of no im-
portance to the reader.
The Engliſh nobleman who acts a confidere
able part in this romance is called in the origi-
nal Lord Bomjton, which I ſuppoſe M. Rouſ-
ſeau thought to be an Engliſh name, or at leaſt
very like one. It may poſſibly found well
enough in the ears of a Frenchman; but I believe
the Engliſh reader will not be offended with me
for having ſubſtituted that of Lord B - in its
It is amazing that the French noveliſts
thould be as ignorant of our common names,
and the titles of our nobility, as they are of
our manners. They ſeldom mention our coun-
try, or attempt to introduce an Engliſh charac-
ter, without expoſing themſelves to our ridicule.
I have ſeen one of their celebrated romances,
in which a Britiſh nobleman, called the Duke
of Workinſheton, is a principal perſonage; and
another, in which the one identical lover of the
heroine is ſometimes a Duke, ſometimes an Earl,
and ſometimes a ſimple Baronet. Catombridge
is, with them, an Engliſh city: and yet they
endeavour to impoſe upon their readers by pre-
tending their novels are tranſlations from the
Engliſh.
With regard to this chef d'ouvre of M.
Rouſſeau, it has been received with uncommon
avidity in France, Italy, Germany, Holland,
and, in ſhort, in every part of the Continent where
the French language is underſtood. In England,
beſides


TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE, vii
beſides a very confiderable number firſt im-
ported, it has been many times reprinted;
but, how much foever the world might be de-
lighted with the original, I found it to be the
general opinion of my countrymen, that it was
one of thoſe books which could not poſſibly be
tranſlated with any tolerable degree of juſtice to
the authour: and this general opinion, I own, was
a motive with me for undertaking the work.
There are, in this great city, a conſiderable
number of induſtrious labourers, who maintain
themſelves, and perhaps a numerous family, by
writing for the bookſellers, by whom they are
ranged in ſeparate claſſes, according to their
different abilities; the very loweſt claſs of all
being that of Tranſlators. Now, it cannot be
ſuppoſed that men, who are deemed incapable
of better employment, can be perfectly ac-
quainted either with their own or with
any
other
language: beſides, were they ever ſo well qua-
lified, it becomes their duty to execute as much
work in as little time as poſſible; for, at all
events, they muſt have bread: therefore, it were
unreaſonable to expect they ſhould ſpend their
precious moments in poring over a difficult
ſentence, in order to render their verſion the
more elegant. This I take to be the true reaſon
why our tranſlations from the French are in
general ſo extremely bad.
I confeſs, the idioms of the two languages
are very different, and that therefore it will, in
ſome inſtances, be impoflible to reach the deli-
A 4
cacy


viji TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
cacy of expreſſion in an elegant French writer;
but; in return, their language is frequently fo
vague and diffuſe, that it muſt be entirely the
fault of the Engliſh tranſlator if he does not often
improve upon his original; but this will never
be the caſe, unleſs we fit down with a deſign to
tranſlate the ideas rather than the words of our
author.
Moſt of the tranſlations which I have read,
appear like a thin gauſe ſpread over the original;
the French language appears through every pa-
ragraph; but this is entirely owing to the want
of attention, or want of ability, in the tranſ-
lator. Mr. Pope, and ſome few others, have
ſhown the world, that not only the ideas of the
moſt ſublime writers may be accurately expreſſed
in a tranſlation, but that it is poſſible to im-
prove and adorn them with beauties peculiar to
the Engliſh language.
If, in the following pages, the reader ex-
pects to find a ſervile, literal tranſlation, he
will be miſtaken. I never could, and never
will, copy the failings of my author, be his
reputation ever ſo great, in thoſe inſtances
where they evidently proceed from want of at-
tention. M. Rouſſeau writes with great ele-
gance, but he ſometimes wants propriety of
thought, and accuracy of expreſſion.
As to the real merit of this performance, the
univerſal approbation it has met with is a
ſtronger recommendation than any thing I could
ſay in its praiſe.



A DIA-
A
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN
A MAN
OF LETTERS
AND
M. y
y J. ROUS SE A U,
ON THE
SUBJECT of ROMANCES.
Publiſhed ſince his ELOISA, and intended as
a PREFACE to that Work.
AD VERTISEMEN T.
THE following Dialogue was originally intended
as a Preface to ELOISA ; but its form and length
permitting me to prefix to that Work only a few ex-
tracts from it, I now publiſh it entire, in hopes
that it will be found to contain ſome uſeful hints
concerning Romances in general. Beſides, I thought
it proper to wait till the Book had taken its chance,
before I diſcuſſed its inconveniences and advantages,
being unwilling either to injure the Bookſeller, or
ſupplicate the indulgence of the Publick.
A
DIALOGUE, &°C.
N.T read it quite through.
HERE, take your manuſcript: I have
R. Quite through? I underſtand you: you
think there are not many readers will follow your
example.
N. Vel duo, vel nemo.
R. Turpe & miferabile. But let me have your
fincere opinion.
N. I dare not.
R. You have dared to the utmoſt by that fin-
gle word: pray, explain yourſelf.
N. My opinion depends on your anſwer to
this queſtion: Is it a real, or fictious correfpon-
dence?
R. I cannot perceive the conſequence. In
order to give one's ſentiments of a book, of what
importance can it be to know how it was writ-
ten?
N. In this caſe it is of great importance. A
portrait has its merit if it reſembles the original,
be that original ever ſo ſtrange; but in a picture
А 6
which

xii
DIALOGUE ON THE
which is the produce of imagination, every human
figure ſhould reſemble human nature, or the
picture is of no value: yet, fuppofing them both
good in their kind, there is this difference, the
portrait is intereſting but to a few people, whilſt
the picture will pleaſe the publick in general.
R. I conceive your meaning. If theſe letters
are portraits, they are unintereſting; if they are
pictures, they are ill done. Is it not ſo?
N. Preciſely.
R. Thus I ſhall ſnatch your anſwers before
you fpeak. But, as I cannot reply directly to
your queſtion, I muſt beg leave to propoſe one
in my turn. Suppoſe the worſt: my Eloiſa--
*N. O! if ſhe had really exiſted.
R. Well.
N. But certainly it is no more than a fiction.
R. Be it fo.
N. Why, then, there never was any thing
more abſurd: the letters are no letters, the ro-
mance is no romance, and the perſonages are
people of another world.
R I am ſorry for it, for the ſake of this.
N. Confole yourſelf; there is no want of
fools
among us; but your's have no exiſtence in


nature.
R. I could-_-No, I perceive the drift of
your curioſity. But why do you judge fo pre-
cipitately? Can you be ignorant how widely
human nature differs from itſelf? how oppoſite
its characteriſticks? how prejudice and manners
vary according to times, places, and age. Who :
5
is
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xiii
What would you
is it that can preſcribe bounds to nature, and ſay,
Thus far ſhalt thou go, and no farther?
N. If ſuch reaſoning were allowed, monſters,
giants, pygmies, and chimeras of all kinds might
be fpecifically admitted into nature : every ob-
ject would be disfigured, and we ſhould have no
common model of ourſelves. I repeat it, in a
picture of human nature every figure ſhould re-
ſemble man.
R. I confeſs it; but, then, we ſhould diftin.
guiſh between the variety in human nature and
that which is eflential to it.
ſay of one who ſhould only be able to know
mankind in the picture of a Frenchman ?
N. What would you ſay of one, who, without
expreſſing features or ſhape, ſhould paint a hu-
man figure covered with a veil? Should we not
have reaſon to aſk, where is the man?
R. Without expreſſing features or ſhape --Is
this juſt? There is no perfection in human
nature: that is, indeed, chimerical.
virgin in love with virtue, yet ſwerving from its
dictates,but reclaimed by the horrour of a greater
crime-a too eaſy friend puniſhed at laſt by her
own heart for her culpable indulgence-a young
man, honeſt and ſenſible, but weak; yet in
words a philofopher—an old gentleman bigotted
to his nobility, and facrificing every thing to
opinion- a generous and brave Engliſhman,
paſſionately wiſe, and, without reaſon, always
reaſoning
A young

N.
xiv DIALOGUE ON THE
N. A huſband, hoſpitable and gay, eager to
introduce into his family his wife's quondam
paramour
R. I refer you to the inſcription of the plate.
N. Les belles ames-Vaſtly fine!
R. O philoſophy! What pains thou takeft
to contract the heart, and leffen human nature !
N. It is fallaciouſly elevated by a romantick
imagination. But to the point - The two
friends - What do you ſay of them? --and that
ſudden converſion at the altar ?-divine grace,
no doubt.
R. But, Sir-
N. A pious chriſtian, not inſtructing her
children in their catechiſm; who dies without
praying; whoſe death nevertheleſs edifies the
parſon, and converts an Atheiſt-O!
R. Sir
N. As to the reader being intereſted, his con-
cern is univerſal, and therefore next to none.
Not one bad action; not one wicked man to
make us fear the good. Events ſo natural,
and ſo ſimple, that they ſcarce deſerve the name
of events-no ſurpriſe--no dramatick artifice-
every thing happens juſt as it was expected. Is
it worth while to regiſter ſuch actions as every
man may ſee any day of his life in his own houſe,
or in that of his neighbour?
R. So then you would have common men, and
uncommon events? Now, I ſhould rather defire
the contrary. You took it for a romance: it is


not
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES,
not a romance; but, as you ſaid before, a col-
lection of letters.
N. Which are no letters at all: this, I think,
I ſaid alſo. What an epiſtolary ſtile! How full
of bombaſt! What exclamations! What pre-
paration! How emphatical to exprefs common
ideas! What big words and weak reaſoning!
Frequently neither ſenſe, accuracy, art, energy,
nor depth. Sublime language and grovelling
thoughts. If your perſonages are in nature,
confeſs, at leaſt, that their ſtile is unnatural.
R. I own, that in the light in which you are
pleaſed to view them it muſt appear ſo.
N. Do you ſuppoſe the publick will not judge
in the ſame manner; and did you not aſk my
opinion
R. I did, and I anſwer you with a deſign to
have it more explicitly: now, it appears that you
would be better pleaſed with letters written on
purpoſe to be printed.
N. Perhaps I might; at leaſt, I am of opinion
that nothing ſhould be printed which is not fit
for the preſs.
R. So that in books we ſhould behold man-
kind only as they chooſe to appear.
N. Moſt certainly, as to the authour; thoſe
whom he repreſents, fuch as they are. But in
theſe letters this is not the caſe. Not one ſtrong
delineation-not a ſingle perſonage ſtrikingly
characteriſed---no ſolid obſervations--no know-
ledge of the world. What can be learnt in the

little
xvi
DIALOGUE ON THE
little ſphere of two or three lovers or friends
conſtantly employed in matters only relative to
themſelves?
R. We may learn to love human nature,
whilſt in extenſive ſociety we learn to hate man-
kind. Your judgement is ſevere; that of the
publick ought to be ſtill more ſo. Without com-
plaining of injuſtice, I will tell you, in my turn,
in what light theſe letters appear to me; not ſo
much to excuſe their defects, as to diſcover
their ſource.
The perceptions of perſons in retirement are
very different from thoſe of people in the great
world; their paſſions being differently modified
are differently expreſſed; their imaginations,con-
ſtantly impreſſed by the ſame objects, are more
violently affected. The ſame ſmall number of
images conſtantly return, mix with every idea,
and create thoſe ſtrange and falſe notions ſo re-
markable in people who ſpend their lives in
ſolitude ; but does it follow that their language
is energick ? No, it is only extraordinary: it is
in our converſation with the world that we learn
to ſpeak with energy: firſt, becaufe we muſt
ſpeak differently and better than others, and then,
being every moment obliged to affirm what may
not be believed, and to expreſs ſentiments which
we do not feel, we endeavour at a perſuaſive
manner, which ſupplies the place of interior per-
fuafion. Do you believe that people of real ſen-
fibility expreſs themſelves with that vivacity,
energy, and ardour which you ſo much admire in


our
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xvii
our drama and romances? No-true paſſion,
full of itſelf, is rather diffuſive than emphatical ;
it does not even think of perſuaſion, as it never
ſuppoſes that its exiſtence can be doubtful. In
expreſſing its feelings,it ſpeaks rather for the ſake
of its own eaſe than to inform others. Love is
painted with more vivacity in large cities, but
is it in the village, therefore, leſs violent?
N. So, then, the weakneſs of the expreſſion is a
proof of the ſtrength of the paſſion.
R. Sometimes, at leaſt, it is an indication of
its reality. Read but a love-letter written by an
authour who endeavours to ſhine as a man of wit:
if he has any warmth in his brain, his words
will ſet fire to the paper ; but the flame will ſpread
no farther : you may be charmed, and perhaps a
little moved, but it will be a fleeting agitation,
which will leave nothing except the remem-
berance of words. On the contrary, aletter
really dictated by love, written by a lover in-
Auenced by a real paflion, will be tame, diffuſe,
prolix, unconnected, and full of repetitions :
his heart, overflowing with the ſame ſentiment,
conſtantly returns to the ſame expreſſions, and
like a natural fountain flows continually without
being exhauſted. Nothing brilliant, nothing
remarkable: one remembers neither words nor
phraſes; there is nothing to be admired, nothing
ſtriking: yet we are moved without knowing
why. Though we are not ftruck with ftrength
of ſentiment, we are touched with its truth, and
our hearts, in ſpite of us, ſympathiſe with the
writer
xvili
DIALOGUE ON THE
writer. But men of no ſenſibility, who know
nothing more than the flowery jargon of the
paflions, are ignorant of thoſe beauties, and de-
ſpiſe them.
N. I am all attention.
R. Very well. I ſay, that in real love-let-
ters the thoughts are common, yet the ſtile is
not familiar. Love is nothing more than an il-
lufion; it creates for itſelf another univerſe ; it
is furrounded with objects which have no exiſt-
ence but in imagination, and its language is al-
ways figurative; but its figures are neither juſt
nor regular : its eloquence conſiſts in its dif-
order, and when it reaſons leaſt it is moſt con-
vincing. Enthuſiaſm is the laſt degree of this
paffion. When it is arrived at its greateſt height,
its object appears in a ſtate of perfection ; it then
becomes its idol; it is placed in the heavens ;
and, as the enthuſiaſm of devotion borrows
the language of love, the enthuſiaſm of love alſo
borrows the language of devotion. Its ideas
preſent nothing but Paradiſe, angels, the virtue
of ſaints, and the delights of heaven. In ſuch
tranſport, ſurrounded by ſuch images, is it
not natural to expect fublime language? Can it
poffibly debaſe its ideas by vulgar expreſſions ?
Willit noton the contrary raiſeits ftile, and ſpeak
with adequate dignity ? What then becomes of
your epiſtolary ſtile? It would do mighty well,
to be ſure, in writing to the object of one's ado-
ration: in that caſe, they are not letters, but
hymns.
N. We
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xix
N. We ſhall ſee what the world will ſay.
R. No: rather ſee the winter on my head.
There is an age for experience, and another for
recollection. Our fenfibility ,may be extin-
guiſhed by time; but the ſoul which was once
capable of that ſenſibility remains. But to re-
turn to our letters: if you read them as the
work of an authour who endeavours to pleaſe, or
piques himſelf on his writing, they are certainly
deteſtable. But, take them for what they are,
and judge of them in their kind. Two or three
young people, ſimple, if you will, but fenfible,
who, mutually expreſſing the real ſentiments of
their hearts, have no intention to diſplay their
wit. They know and love each other too well
for ſelf-admiration to have any influence among
them. They are children, and therefore think
like children. They are not natives of France,
how then can they be ſuppoſed to write correctly
They lived in ſolitude, and therefore could
know but little of the world. Entirely filled
with one ſingle ſentiment, they are in a con-
ftant delirium, and yet preſume to philoſophiſe.
Would you have them know how to obſerve, to
judge, and to reflect ? No: of theſe they are
ignorant; but they are verſed in the art of love,
and all their words and actions are connected
with that paſſion. Their ideas are extravagant,
but is not the importance which they give to
thefe romantick notions more amuſing thán all
the wit they could have diſplayed? They ſpeak
ofevery thing; they are conſtantly miſtaken; they
teach


DIALOGUE ON THE
teach us nothing, except the knowledge of them-
felves; but, in making themſelves known, they
obtain our affection. Their errours are more en-
gaging than the wiſdom of the wiſe. Their ho-
neft hearts, even in their tranſgreſſions, bear ſtill
the prejudice of virtue, always confident and al-
ways betrayed. Nothing anfwers their expecta-
tions; every event ſerves to undeceive them.
They are deaf to the voice of diſcouraging truth :
they find nothing correſpond with their own feel-
ings, and, therefore, detaching themſelves from
the reſt of the univerſe, they create in their ſepa-
rate fociety a little world of their own, which
preſents an entire new ſcene.
N. I confefs that a young fellow of twenty,
and girls of eighteen, though not uninſtructed,
ought not to talk like philoſophers, even though
they may ſuppoſe themſelves fuch. I own alſo,
for this diſtinction has not eſcaped me, that theſe
girls became wives of merit, and the young man
a better obſerver. I make no compariſon be.
tween the beginning and the end of the work.
The detail of domeſtick occurrences may efface,
in ſome meaſure, the faults of their younger
years : the chaſte and ſenſible wife, the worthy
matron, inay obliterate the rememberance of for-
mer weakneſs. But even this is a ſubject for
criticiſin: the concluſion of the work renders
the beginning reprehenfible: one would imagine
them to be two different books, which ought
not to be read by the ſame people. If you in-
tended



SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxi
tended to exhibit rational perſonages, why would
you expoſe them before they were become ſo?
Our attention to the leſſons of wiſdom is de
ſtroyed by the child's-play by which they are
preceded: we are ſcandaliſed at the bad before
the good can edify us. In ſhort, the reader
is offended, and throws the book aſide in the
very moment when it might become ſervice-
able.
R. On the contrary, I am of opinion, that
to thoſe who are diſguſted with the beginning
the end would be entirely ſuperfluous; and that
the beginning will be agreeable to thoſe readers
to whom the concluſion may be uſeful. So that
thoſe who do not read to the end will have loſt
nothing, becauſe it is an improper book for
them; and thoſe to whom it may be of ſervice
would never have read it if it had begun with
more gravity. Our leſſons can never be uſeful
unleſs they are ſo written as to catch the attention
of thoſe for whoſe benefit they were calculated.
I may have changed the means, and not the
object. When I endeavoured to ſpeak to men,
I was not heard; perhaps, in ſpeaking to chil-
dren I ſhall gain more attention; and children
would have no more reliſh for naked reaſon than
for medicines ill diſguiſed.
Coſi all' egro fanciul porgiamo afperfi
Di ſoave licor gli orli del vaſo ;
Succhiamari ingannato in tanta ei beve,
E dall'inganno fuo vita riceve.
Buty
xxii DIALOGUE
DIALOGUE ON THE
But, on the margin of the cup
Let honey drop by ſtealth ;
Drinking the bitter potion up,
They're cheated into health.
N. Here, again, I am afraid you are deceived :
they will fip on the edge of the veſſel, but will
not drink the liquor.
R. Be it ſo: it will not be my fault: I ſhall
have done all in my power to make it palatable.
My young folks are amiable; but to love them
at thirty it is neceſſary to know them when they
were ten years younger. One muſt have lived
with them a long time to be pleaſed with their
company; and, to taſte their virtues, it is ne-
ceffary we ſhould firſt have deplored their fail-
ings. Their letters are not intereſting at firſt ; but
we grow attached by degrees, and can neither
continue nor quit them. They are neither ele-
gant, eaſy, rational, fenfible, nor eloquent; but
there is a ſenſibility which gradually communi-
cates itſelf to our hearts, which at laſt is found
to ſupply the place of all the reſt. It is a long
romance, of which no one part has power to
move us, and yet the whole produces a proper
effe 7. At leaſt, ſuch were its effect upon me.
Pray, were not you touched in reading it?
N. No; yet I can eaſily conceive your being
affected : if you are the authour, nothing can be
more natural; and if not, I can ſtill account for
it. A man of the world can have no taſte for
the extravagant ideas, the affected pathos, and
falſe reaſoning of your good folks; but they will


fuit
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxiii

ruit a recluſe, for the reaſon which
you
have
given: now, before you determine to publiſh
the manuſcript, you would do well to remem-
ber that the world is, not compoſed of hermits.
All you can expect is that your young gentle-
man will be taken for a Celadon, your Lord B-
for a Don Quixote, your young damſels for two
Aſtreas, and that the world will laugh at them
for a company of fools. But a continued folly
cannot be entertaining. A man ſhould write
like Cervantes before he can expect to engage
his reader to accompany him through four
volumes of nonſenſe.
R. The very reaſon which would make you
ſuppreſs this work will induce me to print it.
N. What ! the certainty of its not being read?
R. A little patience and you will underſtand
As to morals, I believe that all kinds of
reading are uſeleſs to people of the world : firſt,
becauſe the number of new books which they
run through ſo generally contradict each other
that their effect is reciprocally deſtroyed. The
few choice books which deſerve a ſecond peruſal
are equally ineffectual: for, if they are written in
in ſupport of received opinions, they are ſuper-
fuous; and if in oppoſition they are of no
ufe; they are too weak to break the chain which
attaches the reader to the vices of ſociety. A
man of the world may poſibly, for a moment, be
led from his wonted path by the dictates of mo-
rality; but he will find ſo many obſtacles in the
way, that he will ſpeedily return to his former
4
courſe.
me.
2 DIALOGUE ON THE
xxiv
courſe. I am perſuaded there are few people, who
have had a tolerable education, that have not made
this eſſay at leaſt once in their lives; but, find-
ing their efforts vain, they are diſcouraged from
any future attempt, and conſider the morality of
books as the jargon of idleneſs. The farther we
retreat from buſineſs, great cities, and nume-
rous focieties, the more the obſtacles to morality
diminiſh. There is a certain point of diſtance
where theſe obſtacles ceaſe to be inſurmount-
able, and there it is that books may be of uſe.
When we live in folitude, as we do not then
read with a deſign to diſplay our reading, we are
leſs anxious to change our books, and beſtow on
them more reflexion; and as their principles find
leſs oppoſition from without, their internal im-
preſſion is more effectual. In retirement, the
want of occupation, obliges thoſe who have no
reſource in themſelves, to have recourſe to books
of amuſement. Romances are more read in the
provincial towns than at Paris, in towns leſs than
in the country, and there they make the deepeſt
impreſſion-the reaſon is plain.
Now, it happens unfortunately that the books
which might amuſe, inſtruct, and conſole the
people in retirement, who are unhappy only in
their own imagination, are generally calculated
to make them ftill more diſſatisfied with their
ſituation. People of rank and faſhion are the
fole perſonages of all our romances.
The re-
fined taſte of great cities, court maxims, the
fplendour of luxury, and Epicurean morality;
theſe

SUBJECT OF ROMANCES.
XXV
theſe are their precepts, theſe their leſſons of in-
ſtruction. The colouring of their falſe virtues
tarniſhes their real ones. Polite manners are
ſubſtituted for real duties, fine ſentiments for
good actions, and virtuous fimplicity is deemed
want of breeding.
What effect muſt ſuch repreſentations produce
in the mind of a country gentleman, in which
his freedom and hoſpitality is turned into ridicule,
and the joy which he ſpreads through his neigh-
bourhood is pronounced to be a low and con-
temptible amuſement ? What influence muſt
they not have upon his wife, when ſhe is taught
that the care of her family is beneath a lady of
her rank; and on his daughter, who, being in-
ſtructed in the jargon and affectation of the city,
diſdains for his clowniſh behaviour the honeſt
neighbour whom ſhe would otherwiſe have mar-
ried. With one conſent, aſhamed of their ru-
ſticity, and diſguſted with their village, they
leave their ancient manfion, which foon becomes
a ruin, to reſide in the metropolis; where the
father, with his croſs of St. Louis, from a gen-
tleman becomes a ſharper; the mother keeps a
gaming houſe; the daughter amuſes herſelf with
a circle of gameſters: and frequently all three,
after having led a life of infamy, die in miſery
and diſhonour.
Authours, men of letters, and philoſophers
are conſtantly inſinuating, that in order to fulfill
the duties of ſociety, and to ſerve our fellow-
creatures, it is neceſſary that we ſhould live in
VOL. I.
B
great

xxvi
DIALOGUE ON THE
great cities: according to them, to Ay from
Paris is to hate mankind; people in the country
are nobody in their eyes; to hear them talk, one
would imagine that where there are no penſions,
academies, nor open tables, there is no exiſtence.
All our productions verge to the ſame goal.
Tales, romances, comedies, all are levelled at the
country: all conſpire to ridicule ruſtic fimplicity;
they all diſplay, and extol, the pleaſures of the
great
world: it is a ſhame not to know them;
and not to enjoy them, a misfortune. How
many of theſe iharpers and proſtitutes, with
which Paris is ſo amply provided, were firſt ſe-
duced by the expectation of thef: imaginary
pleaſures? Thus prejudice and opinion con-
tribute to effect the political ſyſtem, by attracting
the inhabitants of each country to a ſingle point
of territory, leaving all the reſt a defert:
thus nations are depopulated, that their capitals
may flouriſh; and this frivolous fplendour, with
which fools are captivated, makes Europe verge
with celerity towards its ruin. The happineſs
of mankind requires that we ſhould endeavour
to ſtop this torrent of pernicious maxims. The
employment of the clergy is to tell us that we
muſt be good and wiſe, without concerning
themſelves about the ſucceſs of their diſcourſes;
but a good citizen, who is really anxious to pro-
mote virtue, ſhould not only tell us to be good,
but endeavour to make the path agreeable which
will lead us to happineſs.
N. Pray

I

SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxvii

N. Pray, my good friend, take breath for
a moment. I am no enemy to uſeful deſigns;
and I have been ſo attentive to your reaſoning,
that I believe it will be in my power to conti-
nue your argument. You are clearly of opinion,
that to give to works of imagination the only
utility of which they are capable, they muſt
have an effect diametrically oppoſite to that
which their authours generally propoſe; they
muſt combat every human inſtitution, re-
duce all things to a ſtate of nature, make man-
kind in love with a life of peace and fimplicity,
deſtroy their prejudices and opinions, inſpire
them with a taſte for true pleaſure, keep them
diſtant from each other, and, inſtead of exciting
people to crowd into large cities, perſuade them
to ſpread themſelves all over the kingdom, that
every part may be equally enlivened. I alſo
comprehend, that it is not your intention to
create a world of Arcadian Shepherds, of illu-
ſtrious peaſants labouring on their own acres, and
philoſophiſing on the works of nature, nor any
other romantic beings, which exiſt only in books;
but to convince mankind that in rural life there
are many pleaſures which they know not how
to enjoy; that theſe pleaſures are neither ſo in-
fipid nor ſo groſs as they imagine; that they are
ſuſceptible of taſte and delicacy; that a ſenſible
man, who thould retire with his family into the
country, and become his own farmer, might
enjoy more rational felicity, than in the midſt
of the amuſements of a great city; that a good
houſewife


B 2

xxvili DIALOGUE ON THE
houſewife may be a moſt agreeable woman, that
ſhe may be as graceful and as charming as any
town coquet of them all; in ſhort, that the moſt
tender ſentiments of the heart will more effec-
tually animate fociety than the artificial lan-
guage of polite circles, where the ill-natured
laugh of ſatire is the pitiful ſubſtitute of that
real mirth which no longer exiſts.--Have I not
hit the mark?
R. It is the very thing; to which I will add
but one reflexion. We are told that romances
difturb the brain : 1 believe it true. In conti-
nually diſplaying to the reader the ideal charms
of a ſituation very different from his
different from his own, he
becomes diſſatisfied, and makes an imaginary
exchange for that which he is taught to admire.
Deſiring to be that which he is not, he foon be-
lieves himſelf actually metamorphoſed, and ſo
becomes a fool. If, on the contrary, romances
were only to exhibit the pictures of real objects,
of virtues and pleaſures within our reach, they
would then make us wiſer and better. Books
which are deſigned to be read in ſolitude ſhould
be written in the language of retirement: if they
are meant to inſtruct, they ſhould make us in
love with our ſituation; they ſhould combat and
deſtroy the maxims of the great world, by
ſhowing them to be falſe and deſpicable, as they
really are. Thus, Sir, a romance, if it be well
written, or at leaſt if it be uſeful, muſt be hiſſed,
damned, and deſpiſed by the polite world, as
being a mean, extravagant, and ridiculous per-
formance;
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxix

formance; and thus what is folly in the eyes
of
the world is real wiſdom.
N. Your conclufion is ſelf-evident. It is
impoſſible better to anticipate your fall, nor to
be better prepared to fall with dignity. There
remains but one dificulty: People in the coun-
try, you know, take their cue from us. A book
calculated for them muſt firſt paſs the cenſure
of the town: if we think fit to damn it, its cir-
culation is entirely ſtopped. What do
What do you ſay
to that?
R. The anſwer is quite ſimple. You ſpeak
of wits who refide in the country; whilſt I
would be underſtood to mean real country folks.
You gentlemen who ſhine in the capital have
certain prepoſſeſſions of which you muſt be
cured: you imagine that you govern the taſte of all
France, when in fact three fourths of the king-
dom do not know that
you exiſt. The books
which are damned at Paris often make the for-
tune of country book fellers.
N. But why will you enrich them at the ex-
penſe of our's?
R. Banter me as you pleaſe; I ſhall perfift.
Thoſe who aſpire to fame muſt calculate their
works for the meridian of Paris; but thoſe who
write with a view to do good muſt write for the
country. How many worthy people are there,
who paſs their lives in cultivating a few paternal
acres, far diſtant from the metropolis, and who
think themſelves exiled by the partiality of for-
tune? During the long winter evenings, de-
prived



B 3
DIALOGUE ON THE

prived of ſociety, they paſs the time in reading
ſuch books of amufement as happen to fall into
their hands. In their ruſtick fimplicity they do
not pride themſelves on their wit or learning;
they read for entertainment rather than inſtruc-
tion; books of morality and philoſophy are en-
tirely unknown to them. As to
As to your romances,
they are ſo far from being adapted to their fitua-
tion, that they ſerve only to render it inſupport-
able. Their retreat is repreſented to be a deſert,
ſo that, whilſt they afford a few hours amuſement,
they prepare for them whole months of regret
and diſcontent. 'Why may I not ſuppoſe, that,
,
by ſome fortunate accident, this book, like many
others of ftill leſs merit, will fall into the hands
of thoſe inhabitants of the fields, and that the
pleaſing picture of a life exactly reſembling their's
will render it more tolerable? I have great plea-
fure in the idea of a married couple reading this
novel together, imbibing freſh courage to ſup-
port their common labours, and perhaps new de-
figns to render them uſeful. How can they
poſſibly contemplate the repreſentation of a happy
family without atteinpting to imitate the pleaſing
model?
How can they be affected with the
charms of conjugal union, even where love is
wanting, without increaſing and confirming
their own attachment? In quitting their book,
they will neither be diſcontented with their ſitua-
tion, nor diſguſted at their labour : on the con-
trary, every object around them will aſſume a more
delightful aſpect, their duties will ſeem ennobled,



their
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxxi

their taſte for the pleaſures of nature will revive;
her genuine ſenſations will be rekindled in their
hearts, and, perceiving happineſs within their
reach, they will learn to taſte it as they ought:
they will perform the fame functions, but with
another ſoul; and what they did before as pea-
fants only, they will now tranſact as real
pa-
triarchs.
N. So far, you fail before the wind. Hu.
ſbands, wives, matrons --but, with regard to
young girls: do you ſay nothing of thoſe ?
R. No. A modeſt girl will never read books
of love. If ſhe ſhould complain of having
been injured by the peruſal of theſe volumes,
ſhe is unjuſt: ſhe has loft no virtue; for the
had none to loſe.
N. Prodigious! attend to this, all ye amo-
rous writers; for thus ye are all juſtified. ad
R. Provided they are juſtified by their own
hearts, and the object of their writings.
N. And is that the caſe with you?
R. I am too proud to anſwer that queſtion;
but Eloiſa had a certain rule by which ſhe formed
her judgement of books*: if you like it, uſe
it in judging of this. Authours have endea-
voured to make the reading of romances fer-
viceable to youth. There never was a more idle
project. It is juſt ſetting fire to the houſe in
order to employ the engines. Having conceived
this ridiculous idea, inſtead of directing the mo-
ral of their writings towards its proper object,


В 4
See Vol. II. p. 74.
Xxxii 23 DIALOGUE ON THE
it is conſtantly addreſſed to young girls*, with-
out confidering that theſe have no ſhare in the
irregularities complained of. In general, though
their hearts may be corrupted, their conduct is
blameleſs They obey their mothers, in expec-
tation of the time when it will be in their power
to imitate them. If the wives do their duty, be
aſſured the girls will not be wanting in their's.
N. Obſervation is againſt you in this point.
The whole fex ſeem to require a time for liber-
tiniſm, either in one ſtate or the other. It is
a bad leaven, which muſt ferment foon or late.
Among a civilized people, the girls are eaſy,
and the wives difficult, of acceſs; but where
mankind are leſs polite it is juſt the reverſe :
the firſt conſider the crime only, and the latter
the ſcandal. The principal queſtion is, how to
be beſt ſecured from temptation: as to the crime,
it is of no conſideration.
R. If we were to judge by its conſequences,
one would be apt to be of another opinion.
But let us be juſt to the women: the cauſe of
their irregularities is leſs owing to themſelves
than to our bad inſtitutions. The extreme in-
equality in the different members of the fame
family muſt neceſſarily ſtifle the ſentiments of
nature. The vices and misfortunes of children,
are owing chiefly to the father's unnatural de-
ſpotiſm. A young wife, unſuitably eſpouſed,
and a victim to the avarice or vanity of her pa-
rents, glories in effacing the ſcandal of her former
virtue
This regards only the modern Engliſh romances.

SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxxjii
virtue by her preſent irregularities. If you
would remedy this evil, proceed to its fource.
Publick manners can only be reformed by begin-
ning with private vices, which naturally ariſe
from parents. But our reformers never proceed
in this manner. Your cowardly authours preach
only to the oppreſſed; and their morality can
have no effect, becauſe they have not, the art to
addreſs the moſt powerful.
N. You, Sir, however, run no riſk of being
accuſed of ſervility; but may you not poſſibly
be too fincere? In ſtriking at the root of this
evil, may you not be the cauſe of more-
R. Evil! to whom? In times of epidemical
contagion, when all are infected from their in.
fancy, would it be prudent to hinder the
diſtribution of falutary medicines, under a
pretence that they might do harm to people
in health? You and I, Sir, differ ſo widely
on this point, that if it were reaſonable to
expect that theſe letters can meet with any
fuccefs, I am perſuaded they will do more good
than a better book.
N. Certainly your females are excellent
preachers. I am pleaſed to ſee you reconciled
with the ladies; for I was really concerned when
you impoſed filence on the fex.*
R. You are
too ſevere: I muſt hold my
tongue: I am meither ſo wiſe nor ſo fooliſh as to
be always in the right. Let us leave this bone
for the criticks.
B5
N. With
See the letter to M. d'Alembert fur les Speétacles.


xxxiv
DIALOGUE ON THE
any other
N. With all my heart, left they fhould want
one. But, fuppoſe you had nothing to fear from
quarter, how will you excuſe to a cer.
tain ſevere cenſor of the ſtage thoſe warm de-
fcriptions, and impaſſioned ſentiments, which
are ſo frequent in theſe letters ? Show me a ſcene
in any of our theatrical pieces equal to that in
the wood at Clarens, or that of the dreſſing-room.
Read the letter on theatrical amuſements; read
the whole collection. In fhort, be conſiſtent, or
renounce your former opinions. What would
you have one think?
R. I would have the criticks be confiftent with
themſelves, and not judge till they have tho-
roughly examined. Let me intreat you to read
once more with attention the parts you have
mentioned ; read again the preface to Narciſſe,
and you will there find an anſwer to the accu-
ſation of inconſiſtency. Thoſe forward gentle-
men, who pretend to diſcover that fault in the
Devin du Village, will undoubtedly think it much
more glaring in this work. They will only act
in character ; but you-
N. I recollect two paſſages*. You do not
much eſteem your contemporaries.
R. Sir, I am alſo their contemporary! O,
why was I not born in an age in which I ought
to have burnt this collection!
N. Extravagant as uſual! however, to a cer-
tain degree, your maxims are juſt. For inſtance;
if your Eloiſa had been chaſte from the begin-
ning
Preface to Nareilfe-Lettre à M. d'Alembert,

SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. xxx

ning ſhe would have afforded us leſs inſtruction ;
for to whom would ſhe have ſerved as a model?
In the moſt corrupt ages mankind are fond of
the moſt perfect leſſons of morality; theory fup-
plies the place of practice : and, at the ſmall ex-
penſe of a little leiſure-reading, they ſatisfy the
remnant of their taſte for virtue.
R. Sublime authours, relax a little your perfect
models, if you expect that we ſhould endeavour
to imitate them. To what purpoſe do you vaunt
unſpotted purity? rather ſhow us that which may
be recovered, and perhaps there are ſome who
will attend to your inſtructions.
N. Your
young hero has already made thoſe
reflexions; but, no matter; you would be thought
no leſs culpable in having fhown us what is done,
in order to ſhow what ought to be done. Beſides,
to inſpire the girls with love, and to make wives
reſerved, is overturning the order of things, and
recalling thoſe trifting morals which are now to-
tally proſcribed by philofophy. Say what you
will, it is very indecent, nay ſcandalous, for a
girl to be in love : nothing but a huſband can
authoriſe a lover. It was certainly very impo-
litick to be indulgent to the unmarried ladies, who
are not allowed to read you, and ſevere upon
the married ones, by whom you are to be judged.
Believe me, if you were fearful of ſucceſs, you
may be quite eafy : you have taken fufficient
care to avoid an affront of that nature. Be it as
it may, I ſhall not betray your confidence. I
hope your imprudence will not carry you too
B6
far.


xxxvi DIALOGUE ON THE 3
far. If you think you have written an uſeful book,
publiſh it; but by all means conceal your name.
R. Conceal my name ! Will an honeſt man
ſpeak to the publick from behind a curtain? Will
he dare to print what he does not dare to own!
I am the editor of this book, and I ſhall cer-
tainly fix my name in the title-page.
N. Your name in the title-page !
R. Yes, Sir, in the title-page.
N. You are ſurely in jeſt !
R. I am poſitively in earneſt.
N. What, your real name ? Jean Jacques
Rouſſeau, at full length !
R. Jean Jacques Rouſſeau at full length.
N You ſurely don't think-What will the
world ſay of you?
R. What they pleaſe. I don't print my name
with a deſign to paſs for the authour, but to be
anſwerable for the book.
If it contains any
thing bad, let it be imputed to me; if good, I
defire no praiſe. If the work in general deſerves
cenſure there is ſo much more reaſon for pre-
fixing my name : I have no ambition to paſs for
better than I am.
N. Are you content with that anſwer ?
R. Yes, in an age when it is impoſſible for
any one to be good.
N. Have you forgot les belles ames?
R. By nature belles, but corrupted by your
inſtitutions,
N. And ſo we ſhall behold in the title-page of
a book
swasbarqui
5
SUBJECT OF ROMANOES. xxxvii

cano com
a book of love-epiſtles, by 7. 7. Rouſſeau, Ci-
tizen of Geneva!
R. No, not Citizen of Geneva. I ſhall not
profane the name of my country. I never pre-
fix it but to thoſe writings by which I think it
will not be diſhonoured.
N. Your own name is no diſhonourable one.
and
you have ſome reputation to loſe. This
mean and weak performance will do you no ſer-
vice. I wiſh it was in my power to diſſuade you;
but, if you are determined to proceed, I approve
of your doing it boldly and with a good grace.
At leaſt this will be in character. But, a-propos,
do you intend to prefix your motto?
R. My bookſeller aſked me the ſame queſtion,
and I thought it ſo humorous that I promiſed to
give him the credit of it. No, Sir, I ſhall not
prefix my motto to this book; nevertheleſs, I am
now leſs inclined to relinquiſh it than ever. Re-
member that I thought of publiſhing theſe letters
at the very time when I wrote againſt the theatres,
and that a deſire of accuſing one of my writings has
not made me diſguiſe truth in the other. I have
accuſed myſelf before-hand, perhaps with more
ſeverity than any other perſon will accuſe me.
He who prefers truth to fame may hope to prefer
it to life itſelf. You ſay that weought to be con-
fiftent: I doubt whether that be poſſible to man;
but it is not impoſſible to act with invariable
truth. This I will endeavour to do.
N. Why then, when I aſk whether you are
the authour of theſe letters, do you evade the
queſtion?
R. I
Xxxviii DIALOGUE ON THE

R. I will not lie, even in that caſe.
N. But you refuſe to ſpeak the truth.
R. It is doing honour to truth to keep it fecret.
You would have leſs difficulty with one who
made no fcruple of a lie. Beſides, you know
men of taſte are never miſtaken in the pen of an
authour. How can you aſk a queſtion which it is
your buſineſs to reſolve!
N. I have no doubt with regard to ſome of
the letters; they are certainly your's : but in
others you are quite inviſible, and I much doubt
the poſſibility of diſguiſe in this caſe. Nature,
who does not fear being known, frequently
changes her appearance; but art is often dif-
covered, by attempting to be too natural. Theſe
epiſtles abound with faults that the moſt arrant
fcribbler would have avoided, Declamation,
repetitions, contradictions, &c. in ſhort, it is im-
poſſible that a man who can write better could
ever reſolve to write ſo ill. What man in his
ſenſes would have made that fooliſh Lord B-
advance ſuch a ſhocking propoſal to Eloiſa? Or
what authour would not have corrected the ridi-
culous behaviour of this young hero, who,
though poſitively reſolved to die, takes good care
to apprize all the world of his intention, and
finds himſelf at laſt in perfect health? Would
not any writer have known that he ought to ſup-
port
his characters with accuracy, and
ſtile accordingly, and he would then infallibly
have excelled even nature herſelf?
vary his
SUBJECT OF ROMANCES. Xxxix
I have obſerved, that in a very intimate ſociety
both ſtile and characters are extremely ſimilar,
and that when two ſouls are cloſely united, their
thoughts, words, and actions will be nearly the
fame. This Eloiſa, as ſhe is repreſented, ought
to be an abſolute enchantreſs; all who approach
her ought immediately to reſemble her; all her
friends fhould ſpeak one language : but theſe
effects are much eaſier felt than imagined; and
even if it were poſſible to expreſs them, it would
be imprudent to attempt it. An authour muſt
be governed by the conceptions of the multitude,
and therefore all refinement is improper.
This
is the touchſtone of truth, and in this it is that a
judicious eye will diſcover real nature.
R. Well, and ſo you conclude
N. I do not conclude at all: I am in doubt;
and this doubt has tormented me inexpreflibly,
during the whole time I ſpent in reading theſe
letters. If it be all a fiction, it is a bad per-
formance; but ſay that theſe two women have
really exiſted, and I will read their epiſtles once
a year to the end of
R. Strange! what ſignifies it whether they
ever exiſted or not? They are no where to be
found: they are no more.
IN. No more! So they actually did exiſt.
R. The concluſion is conditional : if they
ever did exiſt, they are now no more.
N. Between you and I, theſe little ſubtilties
are more conclufive than perplexing.



my life.

R. They
xl
DIALOGUE ON THE
do as you
2. โง
R. They are ſuch as you force me to uſe,
that I may neither betray myſelf nor tell an
untruth.
N. In ſhort, you may
think proper ;
your
title is ſufficient to betray you.
R. It diſcovers nothing relative to the matter
in queſtion; for who can tell whether I did not
find this title in the manuſcript ? Who knows
whether I have not the ſame doubts which you
have? Whether all this myſtery be not a pretext
to conceal my own ignorance? nie bud
N. But, however, you are acquainted with
the ſcene of action. You have been at Vevai,
in the Pays de Vaud.
R. Often; and I declare that I never heard
either of Baron d'Etange, or his daughter. The
name of Wolmar is entirely unknown in that
country. I have been at Clarens, but never ſaw
any houſe like that which is deſcribed in theſe
letters. I paſſed through it, in my return from
Italy, in the very year when the fad cataſtrophe
happened, and I found nobody in tears for the
death of Eloiſa Wolmar. In ſhort, as much as
I can recollect of the country, there are, in
theſe letters, ſeveral tranſpoſitions of places,
and topographical errours, proceeding either
from ignorance in the authour, or from a deſign
to miſlead the reader. This is all
you will learn
from me on this point, and you may be aſſured
that no one elſe thall draw any thing more from


me.
N. All
SUBJECT OF ROMANCE S. xli

N. All the world will be as curious as I am.
If you print this work, tell the publick what you
have told me. Do more, write this converſation
as a Preface: it contains all the information
neceſſary for the reader.
R. You are in the right. It will do better
than any thing I could ſay of my own accord.
Though theſe kind of apologies ſeldom ſucceed.
N. True, where the authour ſpares himſelf.
But I have taken care to remove that objection
here. Only, I would adviſe you to tranſpoſe the
parts. Pretend that I wanted to perſuade you to
publiſh, and that you objected. This will be
more modeſt, and will have a better effect.
R. Would that be conſiſtent with the character
for which you praiſed me a while ago?
N. It would not. I ſpoke with a deſign te
try you. Leave things as they are.

ELOISA.
E L O IS A.
sido
DE LETTER 1. DON
Ford
Olom
TO ELOISA.

I
MUST fly from you, Eloiſa; I feel I muſt.
I ought not to have ſtayed with you ſo long;
or rather, I ought never to have beheld
you.
But now, what can I do! On what
ſhall I determine? You have promiſed me your
friendſhip ; conſider my perplexity, and give me
your advice.
You are ſenſible that I only came into the
family in conſequence of an invitation from
your mother. Believing me poſſeſſed of ſome lit-
tle knowledge, ſhe thought I might be of ſervice
in the education of her beloved daughter, in a
ſituation where proper maſters were not to be
obtained. Proud to be inſtrumental in adding
any embelliſhment to fo fine a natural genius,
I ventured on the perilous taſk, unmindful of
the danger, or at leaſt fearleſs of the confe-
quence. I will not tell you that I begin to
ſuffer for my preſumption. I hope I ſhall never
so far forget myſelf as to ſay any thing which you
ought
44
E LO IS A.

ought not to hear, or fail in that reſpect which
is due to your virtue even more than to your
birth or perſonal charms. If I muſt fuffer, I
have the conſolation at leaſt of ſuffering alone ;
nor could I enjoy any happineſs at the expenſe
of your's.
And yet I ſee and converſe with you daily :
in the mean while I am but too ſenſible that
you innocently aggravate a misfortune which
you cannot pity, and of which you ought to be
ignorant. It is true, I know what prudence
dictates in a cafe like this, where there is no
hope; and I ſhould certainly follow her advice
if I could reconcile it to my notions of probity.
But, how can I with decency quit a family
into which I was ſo kindly invited, where I have
received ſo many obligations, and where, by
the tendereſt of mothers, I am thought of ſome
utility to a daughter whom ſhe loves more than
all the world? How can I reſolve to deprive
this affectionate parent of the pieaſure ſhe pro-
poſes herſelf in one day ſurpriſing her huſband
with your improvements, which ſhe now con-
ceals from his knowledge with that view? Shall
I impolitely quit the houſe without taking leave
of her? Shall I declare to her the cauſe of my
retreat, and would not ſhe have reaſon to be
offended with this confeffion from a man whoſe
inferior birth and fortune prevent his aſpiring to
the happineſs of being your's ?
There ſeems but one method to extricate me
from this embarraſſment: the hand which
involved


E L O IS A:
45
involved me in it muſt alſo relieve me. As
you
are the cauſe of my offenſe, you muſt inflict
my puniſhment: out of compaſſion, at leaſt deign
to baniſh me from your preſence. Show my
letter to your parents ; let your doors be ſhut
againſt me; fpurn me from you in what manner
you pleaſe: from you I can bear any thing; but
of my own accord I have no power to fly from
you.
Spurn me from you! Ay your preſence! and
why? Why ſhould it be a crime to be ſenſible
of merit, and to love that which we cannot fail
to eſteem? No, charming Eloiſa! your beauty
might have dazzled my eyes, but it never would
have miſled my heart, had it not been animated
with ſomething yet more powerful. It is that
captivating union between a lively ſenſibility and
invariable ſweetneſs of diſpoſition; it is that
tender feeling for the diſtreſſes of your
fellow.
creatures; it is that amazing juſtneſs of ſenti-
ment, and that exquiſite taſte, which derive their
excellence from the purity of your ſoul; it is,
in a word, thoſe charms of your mind more than
thoſe of your perſon which I adore. I confeſs
it may be poſſible to imagine beauties ſtill more
tranſcendently perfect; but more amiable, and
more deſerving the heart of a wiſe and virtuous
man --no, no, Eloiſa, that is impoſſible.
I am ſometimes inclined to flatter myſelf that
as there is a parity in our years, and a fimilitude
in our taſte, there is alſo a ſecret ſympathy in
our affections. We are both ſo
We are both fo young that our
nature
ELOISA.

nature can hitherto have received no falſe bias
from any thing adventitious, and all our in-
clinations ſeem to coincide. Before we have
imbibed the uniform prejudices of the world,
our general perceptions ſeem uniform ; and why
may I not ſuppoſe the ſame concord in our
hearts, which in our judgement is ſo ſtrikingly
apparent? Sometimes it happens that our eyes
meet; involuntary fighs betray our feelings,
tears ſteal from O! my Eloiſa! if this uni-
fon of ſoul ſhould be a divine impulſeif hea-
ven ſhould have deſtined us--all the power on
earth-_Ah, pardon me! I am bewildered : I
have miſtaken a vain wiſh for hope: the ardour
of my deſires gave to their imaginary object a
ſolidity which did not exiſt. I foreſee with
horrour the torments which my heart is preparing
for itſelf. I do not ſeek to indulge my weak-
neſs; if it were in my power I would hate it.
You may judge of the purity of my ſentiments
by the favour I aſk. Deſtroy, if poſible, the
ſource of the poiſon that both ſupports and kills
I am determined to effect my cure or my
death, and I therefore implore your rigorous in-
junction, as a lover would ſupplicate your com-
paſſion.
Yes, I promiſe, I ſwear, on my part, to do
every thing in my power to recover my reaſon;
or to bury my growing anxiety in the inmoſt
recefles of
my ſoul. But, for heaven's fake,
turn from me thoſe lovely eyes that pierce me to
the heart; ſuffer me no longer to gaze upon
that
me.
E LO IS A.
47

that face, that mien, thoſe arms, thoſe hands,
thoſe flowing locks, that engaging geſture :
diſappoint the imprudent avidity of my looks;
no longer let me hear that enchanting voice,
which cannot be heard without emotion : be,
alas! in every reſpect another woman, that my
ſoul may return to its former tranquillity.
Shall I tell you without apology? when we
are engaged in the puerile amuſements of theſe
long evenings, you cruelly permit me, in the
preſence of the whole family, to increaſe a flame
that is already but too violent. You are not
more reſerved to me than to
any other. Ever
yeſterday you almoſt ſuffered me, as a forfeit, to
take a kiſs: you made but a faint reſiſtance.
Happily I did not perſiſt. I perceived, by my
increaſing palpitation, that I was ruſhing upon
my ruin, and therefore ſtopped in time. If
I had dared to indulge my inclination, that kiſs
would have been accompanied with my laſt figh,
and I ſhould have died the happieſt of mortals.
For heaven's fake let us quit thoſe childiſh
amuſements, ſince they may poſſibly be attended
with ſuch fatal conſequences: even the moſt
ſimple of them is not without its danger. I trem-
ble as often as our hands meet, and I know not
how it happens, but they meet continually. I
ſtart the inſtant I feel the touch of your finger ;
I am ſeiſed with a fever, or rather delirium, in
theſe ſports; my ſenſes gradually forſake me,
and when I am thus abſent, what can I ſay,
what

E LO I SA.
what can I do, where hide myſelf, or how be
anſwerable for my conduct ?
The hours of inſtruction are no leſs dangerous
than thoſe of amuſement. Your mother or your
couſin no ſooner leave the room than I obferve
a change in your behaviour. You at once aſſume
an air ſo ſerious and cold, that my reſpect,
and the fear of offending, deſtroy my preſence
of mind, and deprive me of my judgement : ſo
that it is with difficulty and trembling that I
gabble over a leſſon, which even your excellent
talents are unable to purſue. This affected
change in your behaviour is hurtful to us both :
you confound me, and deprive yourſelf of in-
ſtruction, whilft I am entirely at a loſs to account
for this ſudden alteration in a perſon naturally
ſo even-tempered and reaſonable.
pray, tellme, why you are ſo ſprightly in publick,
and ſo reſerved when by ourſelves ? I imagined
it ought to be juſt the contrary, and that one
ſhould be more or leſs upon one's guard in pro-
portion to the number of ſpectators. But, inſtead
of this, when we are alone you are ceremonious,
and familiar when we join company. If you
deign to be more equal, probably my torment
will be lefs.
If that compaſſion which is natural to elevated
minds can move you in behalf of an unfortunate
youth, whom you have honoured with ſome
ſhare in your eſteem, you have it in your power,
by a ſmall change in your conduct, to render his
ſituation leſs irkſome, and to enable him, with
Tell me,
more
E LO IS A.
49
more tranquillity, to ſupport his filence, and his
ſufferings: but if you find yourſelf not touched
with his ſituation, and are determined to exert
your power to ruin him, he will acquieſce with-
out murmuring: he would rather--much rather,
periſh by your order, than incur your diſplea-
fure by his indiſcretion. Now, though you are
become miſtreſs of my future deſtiny, I cannot
reproach myſelf with having indulged the leaſt
preſumptive hope. If you have been ſo kind as
to read my letter, you have complied with all I
ſhould have dared to requeſt, even though I had
no refuſal to fear.
L E T T E R II.
TO ELOISA.
HOW
OW ftrangely was I deceived in my firſt
letter! Inſtead of alleviating my pain, I
have increaſed my diſtreſs, by incurring your dif-
pleaſure: and, alas! that, I find, is the leaft
ſupportable of all misfortnnes. Your filence,
your cold and reſerved behaviour, but too plain-
ly indicate my doom. You have indeed granted
one part of my petition, but it was to puniſh me
with the greater ſeverity.
E poi ch' amor di me vi fece accorta
Fur i biondi capelli allor veloti,
E l'amoroſ Sguardo in ſe racelto.
At diſtance kept from my preſumptuous love,
Your fair and flowing locks no more are ſeen,
And
every kind and tender look reftrain'de
VOL. I.
ç



You
fo
E L O IS A.
You have withdrawn that innocent familiarity
in publick of which I fooliſhly complained; and
in private you are become ſtill more ſevere : you
are ſo ingeniouſly cruel, that both your complai-
ſance and reſerve are equally intolerable.
Were it poſſible for you to conceive how
much your indifference affects me, you would
certainly think my puniſhment too rigorous.
What would I not give to recal that unfortunate
letter, and that I had borne my former ſufferings
without complaint! So fearful am I of adding
to my offenſe, that I ſhould never have ven-
tured to write a ſecond letter, if I did not Aatter
myſelf with the hopes of expiating the crime
I committed in the firſt. Will you deem it any
ſatisfaction if I confeſs that I miſtook my own
intention? or ſhall I proteft that I never was
in love with you? ---O! no; I can never be
guilty of ſuch a horrid perjury! The heart
which is impreſſed with your fair image muſt not
be polluted with a lie. If I am doomed to be
unhappy-be it ſo. I cannot ſtoop to any thing
mean or deceitful to extenuate my fault. My
pen refuſes to diſavow the tranſgreſſion of which
my heart is but too juſtly accuſed.
Methinks I already feel the weight of your
indignation, and await its final conſequence as
a favour which I have ſome right to expect; for
the paſſion which conſumes me deſerves to be
puniſhed, but not deſpiſed. For heaven's ſake,
do not leave me to myſelf; condeſcend, at leaſt,
to determine my fate; deign to let me know
your




E LO I SA.
51

grave.
your pleaſure. I will obey implicitly whatever
you think proper to command. Do you im-
poſe eternal filence? I will be filent as the
Do you baniſh me your preſence? I ſwear that
I will never ſee you more. Will my death ap-
peaſe you? that would be of all things the leaſt
difficult. There are no terms which I am not
ready to ſubſcribe, unleſs they ſhould enjoin me
not to love you; yet, even in that I would obey
you—if it were poflible.
A hundred times a day I am tempted to throw
myſelf at your feet, bathe them with my tears,
and to implore your pardon, or receive my
death; but a fudden terrour damps my refolu-
tion; my trembling knees want power to bend;
my words expire upon my lips, and my ſoul
finds no ſupport againſt the dread of offending
you.
Was ever mortal in fo terrible a ſituation! My
heart is but too ſenſible of its offenſe, yet can-
not ceaſe to offend : my crime and my remorſe
conſpire in its agitation, and, ignorant of my
deſtiny, I am cruelly ſuſpended between the
hope of your compaſſion and the fear of puniſh-


ment.
But, no! I do not hope--I have no right to
hope--I aſk no indulgence, but that you will
haften
my ſentence. Let your juſt revenge be
ſatisfied. Do you think me ſufficiently wretched,
to be thus reduced to follicit vengeance on my
own head ? Puniſh me, it is your duty; but if
you retain the leaſt degree of compaſſion for me,
C с.
do

E L O IS A.
do not,
I beſeech you, drive me to deſpair with
thoſe cold looks, and that air of referve and dif-
content. When once a criminal is condemned
to die, all reſentment ſhould ceaſe.
LE T T E R III.
Dº
TO ELOISA.
not be impatient, madam; this is the
laſt importunity you will receive from me.
Little did I apprehend, in the dawn of my paſ-
fion, what a train of ills I was preparing for
myſelf! I then foreſaw none greater than that
of a hopeleſs paſſion, which reaſon, in time,
might overcome; but I foon experienced one
much more intolerable in the pain which I felt
at your diſpleaſure, and now the diſcovery of
your uneaſineſs is infinitely more afflicting than
all the reſt. O Eloiſa! I perceive it with bitter-
neſs of foul, my complaints affect your peace
of mind. You continue invincibly filent; but
my heart is too attentive not to penetrate into
the ſecret agitations of your mind. Your eyes
appear gloomy, thoughtful, and fixed upon the
ground; ſometimes they wander, and fall un-
deſignedly upon me, your bloom fades, an un-
uſual paleneſs overſpreads your cheeks; your
gaiety forſakes you ; you ſeem oppreſſed with
grief; and the unalterable ſweetneſs of your dif-
poſition alone enables you to preſerve the ſhadow
of your uſual good-humour.is
Whether


E L O IS A.
53
you are
Whether it be through ſenſibility, diſdain, or
even compaſſion for my ſufferings, I ſee
affected by them. I fear, however, to augment
your diſtreſs, and am more unhappy on this
account, than flattered with the hope it might
poſſibly occafion; for, if I know myſelf, your
happineſs is infinitely dearer to me than my own.
I now begin to be ſenſible that I judged very
erroneouſly of the feelings of my heart, and
peceive too late, that what I at firſt took for
a fleeting phrenfy is but to inſeparably intera
woven with my future deſtiny. It is your late
melancholy that has made the increaſing pro-
greſs of my malady apparent. The luſtre of
your eyes, the delicate glow of your complexion,
your excellent underſtanding, and all the en-
chantment of your former vivacity, could not
have affected me half ſo much as your preſent
manifeſt dejection. Be aſſured, divine maid,
if it were poſſible for you to feel the intolerable
flame, which your laſt eight penfive days of lan-
guor and diſcontent have kindled in my ſoul,
you yourſelf would ſhudder at the miſery you
have cauſed. But there is now no remedy :
my deſpair whiſpers that nothing but the cold
tomb will extinguiſh the raging fire within my
breaſt.
Be it fo: he that cannot command felicity
may at leaſt deſerve it. You may poffibly be
obliged to honour with your eſteem the man
whom you did not deign to anſwer. I am young
and may, perchance, one day, merit the regard



C 3
of
54
E L O IS A.
of which I am now unworthy. In the mean
time, it is neceſſary that I ſhould reſtore to you
that repoſe which I have loſt for ever, and of
which you are, by my preſence, in ſpite of my-
felf, deprived. It is but juſt that I alone ſhould
fuffer, fince I alone am guilty. Adieu, then,
too charming Eloiſa! Reſume your tranquillity,
and be again happy. To-morrow I am gone
for ever. But be aſſured, that my violent, ſpot-
leſs paſſion for you will end only with my life;
that my heart, full of ſo divine an object, will
never debaſe itſelf by admitting a ſecond im-
preffion; that it will divide all its future homage
betwen you
and virtue, and that no other flame
ſhall ever profane the altar at which Eloiſa was
adored.


BILLE T I.

FROM ELOISA.

BE
E not too pofitive in your opinion that your
abſence is become neceſſary. A virtuous
heart would overcome its folly, or be ſilent, and
thus might become, perhaps, too formidable.
But you-And yet you may ſtay.
ANSWER.
IT was a long time filent: your cold indifference
forced me to ſpeak at laſt. Virtue may poffibly
get the better of folly, but who can bear to be
deſpiſed by thoſe they love? I muſt be gone.

BILLET
E LO I 6 A.
55
BILLET II.
FROM ELOISA.
O, Sir, after what you have ſeemed to
feel; after what you have dared to tell
me; a man, ſuch as you feign yourſelf, will
not fly he will do more.
ANSWER
I Have feigned nothing except a moderate
paffion in a heart filled with deſpair. To-mor-
row you will be ſatisfied-and, notwithſtanding
what you may then fay, I ſhall have done leſs
than it would be to fly from you.

BILLE T III.
FROM ELOISA.


.
POOLISH youth! if my life be dear to
thee, attempt not thy own. I am beſet,
and can neither ſpeak nor write to you till to-
morrow-Wait!
F

LETTER IV.
FROM ELOISA.
MS
UST I then, at laſt, confeſs, the fatal,
the ill-diſguiſed ſecret! How often have
I ſworn that it fhould never burſt from my heart
but with my life! Thy danger wreſts it from
It is gone, and my honour is loſt for ever.
,
Alas! I have but too religiouſly performed my
VOW:

me.
C4
$6
E LO IS A.
vow: can there be a death more cruel than to
ſurvive one's honour?
What ſhall I ſay ? how ſhall I break the pain-
ful filence? or, rather, have I not ſaid all, and
am I not already too well underſtood? Alas!
thou haſt ſeen too much not to divine the reſt.
Imperceptibly deluded into the fnare of the fedu-
cer, I fee, without being able to avoid it, the
horrid precipice before me. Artful man! it
is not thy paſſion, but mine, which excites thy
preſumption. Thou obſerveſt the diſtraction of
my ſoul; thou availeft thyſelf of it to accom-
pliſh my ruin; and, now thou haſt rendered
me deſpicable, my greateſt misfortune is, that I
am forced to behold thee alſo in a deſpicable light.
Ungrateful wretch! in return for my eſteem,
thou haft ruined me. Had I ſuppoſed thy heart
capable of exulting, believe me thou hadît ne-
ver enjoyed this triumph.
Well thou knoweft, and it will increaſe thy
remorſe, that there was not in my ſoul one vi-
cious inclination. My virtue and innocence
were inexpreſlibly dear to me, and I pleaſed my-
felf with the hopes of cheriſhing them in a life
of induſtrious fimplicity. But to what purpoſe
my endeavour, fince heaven rejects my offering?
The very firſt day we met, I imbibed the poiſon
which now infects my ſenſes and my reaſon: I
felt it inſtantly, and thine eyes, thy ſentiments,
thy diſcourſe, thy guilty pen, daily increaſe its
malignity.



I have

Ε Ι Ο Ι S Α.
.
I have neglected nothing to ſtop the progreſs
of this fatal paſſion. Senſible of my own weak-
neſs, how gladly would I have evaded the at-
tack; but the eagerneſs of my purſuit hath baf-
fled my precaution A thouſand times I have
reſolved to caſt myſelf at the feet of thoſe who
gave me being-a thouſand times I have deter-
mined to open to them my guilty heart: but they
can form no judgement of its condition; they
would apply but common remedies to a deſperate
diſeaſe: my mother is weak and without autho-
rity; I know the inflexible ſeverity of my father,
and I ſhould bring down ruin and diſhonour
upon myſelf, my family, and thee. My friend
is abſent, my brother is no more.
I have not a protector in the world to ſave me
from the perſecution of my enemy. In vain I
implore the aſſiſtance of Heaven; Heaven is deaf
to the prayers of irreſolution. Every thing con-
- ſpires to increaſe my anxiety—every circum-
ſtance combines to abandon me to myſelf, or
rather cruelly to deliver me up to thee--all na-
ture ſeems thy accomplice---my efforts are vain,
I adore thee in ſpite of myſelf. And fhall that
heart which, in its full vigour, was unable to
reſiſt, ſhall it only half ſurrender?
Shall a
heart which knows no diffimulation attempt to
conceal the poor remains of its weakneſs? No;
the firſt ſtep was the moſt difficult, and the only
one which I ought never to have taken. Shall
I now pretend to ſtop at the reſt? No; that first
falſe

C 5

58
E LO I S A.
falſe ftep plunged me into the abyſs, and my de-
gree of miſery is entirely in thy power.
Such is my horrid ſituation, that I am forced
to turn to the authour of my misfortunes, and
implore his protection againſt himſelf. Imight-
I know I might-have deferred this confeſſion
of my deſpair: I might, for ſome time longer,
have diſguiſed my ſhameful weakneſs, and by
yielding gradually have impoſed upon myſelf.
Vain diffimulation! which could only have flat-
tered my pride, but could not ſave my virtue.
I ſee but too plainly whither my firſt errour tends,
and Tall not endeavour to prepare for, but to
eſcape perdition.
Nevertheleſs, if thou art not the very loweſt
of mankind--if the leaſt ſpark of virtue lives
within thy ſoul-if it retain any veſtige of thoſe
ſentiments of honour which ſeemed to penetrate
thy heart, thou canſt not poſſibly be ſo vile as to
take any unjuſt advantage of a confeſſion forced
from me by a fatal diſtraction of my ſenſes.
No; I know thee well: thou wilt ſupport my
weakneſs, thou wilt become my ſafeguard, thou
wilt defend my perſon againſt my own heart.
Thy virtue is the laſt refuge of my innocence;
my honour dares confide in thine, for thou canſt
not preſerve one without the other. Ah! let thy
generous foul preſerve them both, and at leaſt,
for thy own fake, be merciful.
Good God! am I thus fufficiently humbled ?
I write to thee on my knees; I bathe my paper
with my tears ; I pay to thee my timorous ho-
mage:


E LO I SA.
59
mage: and yet thou art not to believe me igno-
rant that it was in my power to have reverſed
the ſcene; and that, with a little art, which
would have rendered me deſpicable in my
own eyes, I might have been obeyed and wor-
ſhipped. Take the frivolous empire, I relin-
quiſh it to my friend; but leave me, ah ! leave
me, my innocence. I had rather live thy flave,
and preſerve my virtue, than purchaſe thy obe-
dience at the price of my honour. Shouldeſt
thou deign to hear me, what gratitude mayeſt
thou not claim from her who will owe to thee
the recovery of her reaſon? How charming muſt
be the tender union of two ſouls unacquainted
with guilt! Thy vanquiſhed paffions will prove
the ſource of happineſs, and thy pleaſures will be
worthy of heaven itſelf.
I hope, nay I am confident, that the man to
whom I have given my whole heart will not belie
my opinion of his generoſity; but I fatter myſelf,
alſo, if he is mean enough to take the leaſt ad-
vantage of my weakneſs, that contempt and in-
dignation will reſtore my ſenſes, and that I am
not yet ſunk ſo low as to fear a lover for whom I
ſhould have reaſon to bluſh. Thou ſhalt be
virtuous, or be deſpiſed; I will be reſpected, or
be myſelf again: it is the only hope I have left,
preferable to the hope of death.

C 6
LETTER

60
E LO I SA.
LET TER V.
Cpable
TO ELOISA.
ELESTIAL powers ! I poſſeſſed a foul ca-
of affliction : O inſpire me with one
that can bear felicity! Divine love! ſpirit of my
exiſtence, O ſupport me! for I ſink down oppreſ-
ſed with extacy. How inexpreſſible are the charms
of virtue! How invincible the power of a be-
loved object! fortune, pleaſure, tranſport, how
poignant your impreſſion ! O, how ſhall I with-
ſtand the rapid torrent of bliſs which overflows
my heart, and how diſpel the apprehenſions of a
timorous maid? Eloiſa---no! my Eloiſa on her
knees! my Eloiſa weep !-Shall the to whom
the univerſe ſhould bend fupplicate the man
who adores her to be careful of her honour,
and to preſerve his own? Were it poſſible for
me to be out of humour with you, I ſhould be a
little angry at your fears: they are diſgraceful
to us both. Learn, thou chaſte and heavenly
beauty, to know better the nature of thy empire.
If I adore thy charming perſon, is it not for
the purity of that ſoul by which it is animated,
and which bears ſuch ineffable marks of its die
vine origin? You tremble with apprehenſion!
good God! what hath ſhe to fear, who ſtamps
with reverence and honour
every
ſentiment ſhe
inſpires ? Is there a man upon earth who could
be vile enough to offer the leaſt inſult to ſuch
virtue?
Permit,

E L O I SA.
Permit, o permit me, to enjoy the unex-
pected happineſs of being beloved-beloved by
ſuch------Ye princes of the world, I now look
down upon your grandeur. Let me read a thou-
ſand and a thouſand times that enchanting epiſtle
where thy tender ſentiments are painted in fuch
ſtrong and glowing colours; where I obſerve
with tranſport, notwithſtanding the violent agi-
tation of thy foul, that even the moſt lively paf-
fions of a noble heart never loſe fight of virtue.
What monſter, after having read that affecting
letter, could take advantage of your generous
confeffion, and attempt a crime which muſt in-
fallibly make him wretched and deſpicable even
to himſelf. No, my deareſt Eloiſa, there can
be nothing to fear from a friend, a lover, who
muſt ever be incapable of deceiving you. Though
I ſhould entirely have loſt my reaſon, though the
diſcompoſure of my ſenſes ſhould hourly increaſe,
your perſon will always appear to me, not only
the moſt beautiful, but the moſt facred depoſit
with which mortal was ever entruſted, My
paffion, like its object, is unalterably pure. The
horrid idea of inceſt does not ſhock me more than
the thought of polluting your heavenly charms
with a facrilegious touch; you are not more in-
violably ſafe with your own parent than with
your lover. If ever that happy lover ſhould in
your preſence forget himſelf but for a moment
O, 'tis impoſſible. When I am no longer in
love with virtue, my love for Eloiſa muſt expire :
on

62
E L O IS A.
on my firſt offenſe, withdraw your affection, and
caſt me off for ever.
By the purity of our mutual tenderneſs,
therefore, I conjure you, baniſh all fufpicion.
Why ſhould your fear exceed the paſſions of your
lover! To what greater felicity can I aſpire,
when that with which I am bleſt is already
more than I am well able to ſupport? We are
both
young, and in love unexperienced, it is true;
but is that honour which conducts us a deceit-
ful guide ? can that experience be needful which
is acquired only from vice? I am ftrangely de-
ceived, if the principles of rectitude are not
rooted in the bottom of my heart. In truth,
my Eloiſa, I am no vile ſeducer, as, in your
deſpair, you were pleaſed to call me; but am
artleſs, and of great ſenſibility, eaſily diſcover-
ing my feelings, but feeling nothing at which I
ought to bluſh. To ſay all in one word, my love
for Eloiſa is not greater than my abhorence of a
crime. I am even doubtful, whether the love
which you inſpire be not in its nature incom-
patible with vice; and whether a corrupt heart
could poſſibly feel its influence. As for the
more I love you, the more exalted are my ſen-
timents. Can there be any degree of virtue,
however unattainable for its own ſake, to which
I would not aſpire to become more worthy of
Eloiſa?
me,
LETTER

E LO I SA.
63
L E T T E R VI.
ELOISA TO CLARA.
I
me, for
S
my
dear couſin reſolved to ſpend her whole
life in bewailing her poor Challiot, and will
The forget the living becauſe of the dead? I
ſympathiſe in your grief and think it juſt, but
Ihall it therefore be eternal? Since the death of
your
mother ſhe was aſſiduouſly careful of your
education ; ſhe was your friend rather than
your
governeſs. She loved you with great tenderneſs,
and
your
fake: her inſtructions were all
intended to enrich our hearts with principles of
honour and virtue. All this I know, my dear,
and acknowledge it with gratitude ; but, confeſs
with me alſo, that in ſome reſpects fhe acted
very
imprudently; that the often indiſcretely told us
things with which we had no concern; that the
entertained us eternally with maxims of gallan-
try, her own juvenile adventures, the manage-
ment of amours; and that to avoid the ſnares
of men, though ſhe might tell us not to give
ear to their proteſtations, yet ſhe certainly in-
ſtructed us in many things with which there was
no neceſſity for young girls to be made acquaint-
ed. Reflect, therefore, upon her death as a mil-
fortune, not without ſome conſolation. Ta
girls of our age her leſſons grew dangerous, and
who knows but heaven may have taken her from
us the very moment in which her removal be-
came neceſſary to our future happineſs. Rem
member

64
E LO IS A.
Was
member the falutary advice you gave me when
I was deprived of the beſt of brothers.
Challiot dearer to you? Is your loſs greater than
mine?
Return, my dear; ſhe has no longer any oce
caſion for you. Alas! whilft your are waſting
your time in ſuperfluous affliction, may not your
abſence be productive of greater evils ? Why are
you not afraid, who know the beatings of my
heart, to abandon your friend to misfortunes
which your preſence might prevent. O Clara !
ſtrange things have happened ſince your depart-
ture. You will tremble to hear the danger to
which I have been expoſed by my imprudence.
Thank heaven, I hope I have now nothing to
fear: but unhappily I am as it were at the mercy
of another. You alone can reſtore me to my-
felf: haſte, therefore, to my affiftance. So long as
your attendance was of ſervice to poor Challiot
I was filent; I ſhould even have been the firſt to
exhort you to ſuch an act of benevolence : but,
now ſhe is no more, her family are become the
objects of your charity: of this obligation we
could better acquit ourſelves if we were togea
ther, and your gratitude might be diſcharged
without neglecting your friend.
Since my father took his leave of us we have
reſumed our former manner of living. My mo-
ther leaves me lefs frequently alone; not that
ſhe has any ſuſpicion. Her viſits employ more
time than it would be proper for me to ſpare
from my little ſtudies, and in her abſence Bab


fills
E LO IS A.
65

fills her place but negligently. Now, though I
do not think my good mother ſufieiently watch-
ful, I cannot refolve to tell her ſo. I would
willingly provide for my own ſafety without
loſing her eſteem, and you alone are capable of
managing this matter. Return, then, my dear
Clara, pr’ythee return. I regret every leffon at
which you are not preſent, and am fearful of be-
coming too learned. Our preceptor is not only
a man of great merit, but of exemplary virtue,
and therefore more dangerous. I am too well
ſatisfied with him to be fo with myſelf. For
with girls of our age, it is always ſafer to be two
than one, be the man ever ſo virtuous.
LË T T E R VII.

I
ANSWER
Underſtand, and tremble for you: not that
I think your danger fo great as your imagi-
nation would ſuggeſt. Your fears make me leſs
apprehenſive for the preſent; but I am terrified
with the thought of what may hereafter happen.
Should you be unable to conquer your paſſion,
what will become of you! Alas, poor Challiot,
how often has fhe foretold that your firſt ſigh
would mark your fortune. Ah! Eloiſa, ſo
young, and thy deſtiny already accompliſhed ?
Much I fear we ſhall find the want of that fen-
ſible woman, whom, in your opinion, we have
Loft for our advantage. Sure I am, it would be
advantageous

66
E LO I S A.

advantageous for us to fall into itill ſafer hands;
but ſhe has made us too knowing to be governed
by another, yet not ſufficiently fo to govern our-
ſelves: ſhe only was able to ſhield us from the
danger to which, by her indiſcretion, we are ex-
poſed. She was extremely communicative, and,
conſidering our age, we ourſelves ſeem to have
thought pretty deeply. The ardent and tender
friendſhip which had united us, almoſt from our
cradles, expanded our hearts, and ripened them
into ſenſibility perhaps a little premature. We
are not ignorant of the paffions, as to their
ſymptoms and effects; the art of fuppreſſing
them ſeems to be all we want. Heaven grant
that our young philoſopher may know this art
better than we.
By we you know who I mean: for my part,
Challiot uſed always to ſay, that my giddineſs
would be my ſecurity in the place of reaſon,
that I Mould never have ſenſe enough to be in
love, and that I was too conſtantly fooliſh to
be guilty of a great folly. My dear Eloiſa, be
careful of yourſelf! the better ſhe thought of
your underſtanding, the more ſhe was appre-
henfive of your heart. Nevertheleſs, let not
your courage fink. Your prudence and your
honour, I am certain, will exert their utmoſt,
and I affure you, on my part, that friendſhip
ſhall do every thing in its power. If we are too
knowing for our years, yet our manners have
been hitherto ſpotleſs and irreproachable. Be-
lieve me, my dear, there are many girls, who,
though



E L OIS A.
67
though they may have more ſimplicity, have leſs
virtue than ourſelves : we know what virtue
means, and are virtuous by choice; and that
ſeems to me the moft fecure.
And yet, from what you have told me, I
ſhall not enjoy a moment's repoſe till we meet;
for, if you are really afraid, your danger is not
entirely chimerical. It is true, the means of
preſervation are very obvious. One word to
your mother, and the thing is done : but I un-
derſtand you; the expedient is too concluſive :
you would willingly be afſured of not being
vanquiſhed, without lofing the honour of having
ſuſtained the combat. Alas! my poor couſin-
if there was the leaſt glimmering --Baron d’E-
fange conſent to give his daughter, his only
child, to the ſon of an inconſiderable tradeſman
without fortune! Doft thou preſume to hope he
will?--or what doſt thou hope ?-what wouldſt
thou have? poor Eloiſa!-Fear nothing, however,
on my account.
Your friend will keep your
ſecret. Many people might think it more ho-
neft to reveal it-perhaps they are right. For
my part, who am no great cafuiſt, I have no
notion of that honeſty which is incompatible
with confidence, faith, and friendſhip I ima-
gine that every relation, every age, hath its pe-
culiar maxims, duties, and virtues; but what
might be prudence in another, in me would be
perfidy; and that to confound theſe things,
would more probably make us wicked, than
wife and happy. If your love be weak, we will
overcome


68
E L O IS A.

overcome it; but, if it be extreme, violent mea-
ſures may produce a tragical cataſtrophe, and
friendſhip will attempt nothing for which it
cannot be anſwerable. After all, I Hatter my,
felf that I ſhall have little reaſon to complain of
your conduct when I have you once under
my
eye. You ſhall ſee what it is to have a duenna
of eighteen!
You know, my dear girl, that I am not abfent
upon pleaſure ; and really the country is not ſo
agreeable in the ſpring as you imagine: one
ſuffers at this time both heat and cold; for the
trees afford us no fhade, and in the houſe it is
too cold to live without fire. My father too, in
the midſt of his building, begins to perceive
that the gazette comes later hither than to town;
fo that we all wiſh to return, and I hope to
embrace you in a few days. But what cauſes
my inquietude is, that a few days make I know
not what number of hours, many of which are
deſtined to the philoſopher--to the philoſopher,
couſin! you underſtand me. Remember that
the clock ſtrikes thoſe hours entirely for him!
Do not bluſh, my dear girl, turn down your
eyes, or look grave : your features will not ſuf-
fer it. You know I never, in my life, could weep
without laughing, and yet I have not leſs fenfi-
bility than other people: I do not feel our ſepa-
ration leſs ſeverely, nor am I leſs amisted with
the loſs of poor Challiot. Her family I am re-
folved never to abandon, and I ſincerely thank
my kind friend for her promiſe to affiſt me: but


to
E LO I SA.
69

to let flip an opportunity of doing good were
to be no more myſelf. I confeſs the good crea-
ture was rather too talkative, free enough on
certain occafions, a little indiſcrete with young
girls, and that ſhe was fond of old ſtories and
times paſt: fo that I do rot ſo much regret the
qualities of her mind, though, among ſome bad
ones, many of them were excellent: the loſs
which I chiefly deplore is the goodneſs of her
heart, and that mixture of maternal and fiſterly
affection, which made her inexpreflibly dear to
me. My mother I ſcarce knew; I am indeed
beloved by my father as much as it is poſlible
for him to love : your amiable brother is no
more; and I very feldom ſee my own. Thus
am I left alone, almoſt deſolate, as an orphan.
You are my only conſolation. Yes, my Eloiſa
lives, and I will weep no more!
P. S. For fear of an accident, I ſhall direct
this letter to our preceptor.
* L ET TER VIII.
O
TO ELOISA.
My fair Eloiſa, what a ſtrange capricious
deity is Love! My preſent felicity ſeems
far to exceed my moſt ſanguine expectations, and
yet
* It is plain there is a chalm here, and the reader
will find many in the courſe of this correſpondence.
Several of the letters are loſt, others are ſuppreſſed, and
fome have been curtailed; but there appears to be nothing
wanting effential to the ſtory.
E LOIS A.

yet I am diſcontented. You love me, you con-
feſs your paſſion, and yet I figh. My pre-
ſumptuous heart dares to wiſh ſtill farther,
though all my wiſhes are gratified. I am pu-
niſhed with its wild imaginations; they render
me unhappy in the very bofom of felicity. Do
not, however, believe that I have forgotten the
laws you have impoſed, or loſt the power of
obedience: no ; but I am diſpleaſed to find the
obſervance of thoſe laws irkſome to me alone;
that you, who not long ago was all imbecillity,
are now become ſo great a heroine; and that
you are fo exceſſively careful to prevent every
proof of my integrity.
How you are changed, and you alone, within
theſe two months! Where is now your langour,
your diſguſt, your dejected look? The graces
have again reſumed their poſt; your charms are
all returned; the new blown roſe is not more
freſh and blooming; you have recovered your
vivacity and wit; you rally, even me, as for-
merly; but what hurts me more than all this, is,
that you ſwear eternal fidelity with as much
gaiety and good-humour as if it were ſomething
droll or indifferent.
O, my fair inconftant! is this the character-
iſtick of an ungovernable paſſion ? If you were
in any degree, at war with your inclinations,
would not the conſtraint throw a damp upon your
enjoyments ? O, how infinitely more amiable
you were, when leſs beautiful! How do I regret
that pathetick paleneſs, that precious aſſurance
of
E L O IS A.
of a lover's happineſs, and hate that ſprightly
health which you have recovered at the expenſe
of my repoſe! Yes, I could be much better ſa-
tisfied with your indiſpoſition, than with that
air of content, thoſe ſparkling eyes, that bloom-
ing complexion, which conſpire to inſult me.
Have you already forgot the time when you were
glad to ſue for mercy? O, Eloiſa! the violent
tempeſt hath been very ſuddenly allayed.
But what vexes me moſt, is, that, after ha-
ving committed yourſelf entirely to my honour,
you ſhould ſeem apprehenſive and miſtruſtful
where there is no danger. Is it thus I am reward-
ed for my diſcretion? Does my inviolable re-
fpect deſerve to be thus affronted? Your father's
abſence is ſo far from giving you more liberty,
that it is now almoſt impoſible to find you
alone. Your.conſtant coufin never leaves you a
moment. I find we are inſenſibly returning to
our former circumſpection, with this difference
only, what was then irkſome to you is now be-
come matter of amuſement.
What recompenſe can I expect for the purity
of my adoration, if not your eſteem ? And to what
purpoſe have I abſtained even from the leaſt in-
dulgence, if it produces no gratitude ? In ſhort,
I am weary of ſuffering ineffectually, and of
living in a ſtate of continued ſelf-denial, without
being allowed the merit of it. I cannot bear
to be deſpiſed whilſt you are growing every day
more beautiful. Why am I to gaze eternally on
thofe delicious fruits which my lips dare not
touch!

E L O ISA,
touch? Muſt I relinquilh all hope, without the
ſatisfaction of a voluntary ſacrifice? No, ſince
you depend no longer upon my honour, it ſtands
releaſed from its vain engagements; your own
precautions are ſufficient. You are ungrateful,
and I am too fcrupulous; but for the future I
am reſolved not to reject the happineſs which
fortune, in ſpite of you, may throw in my way.
Be it as it will, I find that I have taken upon
me a charge that is above my capacity. Eloiſa,
you are once more your own guardian. I muſt
reſign the depoſit which I cannot preſerve with-
out being tempted to a breach of faith, and
which you yourſelf are able to ſecure with leſs
difficulty than you were pleaſed to imagine.
I ſpeak ſeriouſly! depend upon your own
ſtrength, elſe baniſh me, or, in other words,
deprive me of exiſtence. The promiſe I made
was raſh and inconfiderate; and I am amazed
how I have been able to keep it ſo long. I con-
feſs it ought to remain for ever inviolable; but
of that I now perceive the impoſſibility. He
who wantonly expoſes his virtue to ſuch ſevere
tryals deſerves to fall. Believe me, faireft a-
mong women! that you will always be honoured
and reſpected by him who valued life only on
your account? but reaſon may forſake me, and
my intoxicated ſenſes may hint the perpetration
of a crime, which, in my cooler hours, I ſhould
abhor. I am, however, happy in the reflexion
that I have not hitherto abuſed your confidence,
Two whole months have I triumphed over
myſelf;




E LO I SA.
73
myſelf; but I am entitled to the reward due to as
many ages of torment.
L E T T E R IX.

FROM ELOISA.
I
the reward of virtue, would juſt conſtitute
the felicity you wiſh to enjoy. Are theſe your
morals? Truly, my good friend, your generoſity
was of ſhort duration. Is it poſſible that it could
be entirely the effect of art? There is ſome-
thing ludicrous, however, in complaining of my
health. Was it that you hoped to ſee it entirely
deſtroyed by my ridiculous paffion, and ex-
pected to have me at your feet, imploring your
pity to ſave my life? or did you treat me with
refpect whilſt I continued frightful, with an in-
tention to retract your promiſe as ſoon as I
ſhould in any degree become an object of de-
fire ?-I ſee nothing ſo vaſtly meritorious in ſuch
a facrifice.
With equal juſtice, you are pleaſed to reproach
me for the care I have lately taken to prevent
thoſe painful combats with yourſelf, when in
reality you ought to deem it an obligation. You
then retract your engagement, on account of its
being too burthenſome a duty; ſo that in the
ſame breath you complain of having too much
and of not having enough to do. Recollect
yourſelf a little, and endeavour to be more con-
fiftent, that your pretended ſufferings may have
VOL. I.
D
a leſs
74
E L O I SA.,

a leſs frivolous appearance: or perhaps it would
be more adviſeable to put off that diflimulation
which is inconſiſtent with your character. Say
what
you will, your heart is much better ſatisfied
with mine than you would have me think.
Ungrateful man! you are but too well ac-
quainted with its feelings. Even your own let-
ter contradicts you by the gaiety of its ſtile: you
would not have ſo much wit if you had leſs
tranquillity. But enough of vain reproach to
you; let me now reproach myſelf: it will pro-
bably be with more reaſon.
The content and ſerenity with which I have
been bleſſed of late is inconſiſtent with my former
declaration, and I confeſs you have cauſe to be
ſurpriſed at the contraſt. You were then a wit-
neſs to my deſpair, and you now behold in me
too much tranquillity; hence you pronounce me
inconſtant and capricious. Le not, my good
friend, too ſevere in your judgement. This
heart of mine cannot be known in one day.
Have patience, and, in time, you may pro-
bably diſcover it to be not unworthy your re-
gard.
Unleſs you were ſenſible how much I was
ſhocked when I firſt detected my heart in its
paſſion for you, it is impoffible to form any idea
of what I ſuffered. The maxims I imbibed in
my education were ſo extremely fevere, that
love, however pure, ſeemed highly criminal. I
was taught to believe that a young girl of fen-
ſibility was ruined the moment the ſuffered a
tender
E L O IS A.
75

tender expreſſion to paſs her lips: my diſordered
imagination confounded the crime with the con-
feffion of my love, and I had conceived fo ter-
rible an idea of the firſt ſtep, that I ſaw little or
no interval between that and the laſt. An ex-
treme diffidence of myſelf increaſed the alarm;
the ſtruggles of modeſty appeared to be thoſe of
virtue; and the uneaſineſs of ſilence ſeemed the
importunity of deſire. The moment I had ſpoke
I concluded myſelf loft beyond redemption; and
yet I muſt have ſpoken or have parted with you
for ever.
Thus, unable to diſguiſe my ſenti-
ments, I endeavoured to excite your generoſity,
and, depending rather upon you than on myſelf,
I choſe to engage your honour in my defenſe, as
I could have little reliance on a reſource of which
I believed myſelf already deprived.
I ſoon diſcovered my errour: I had ſcarce
opened my mind when I found myſelf much
eaſier; the inſtant I received your anſwer I be-
came perfectly calm; and two months experi-
ence has informed me that my too tender heart
hath need of love, but that my paſſions can rest
ſatisfied without a lover. Now, judge, you who
are a lover of virtue, what joy I muſt have felt
at this diſcovery. Emerged from the profound
ignominy into which my fears had plunged me,
I now taſte the delicious pleaſure of a guiltleſs
paſſion: it conſtitutes all my happineſs: it hath
had an influence on my temper and health : I
can conceive no paradiſe on earth equal to the
union of love and innocence.
I feared




D 2
76
E LO IS A.
Your eyes,
I feared you no longer; and when I endea-
voured to avoid being alone with you, it was
rather for your fake than my own.
your ſighs, betrayed more tranſport than prus
dence: but though you had forgotten the bounds
you yourſelf preſcribed, I ſhould not.
Alas, my friend, I wiſh I could communicate
to you that tranquillity of ſoul which I now en-
joy! Would it were in my power to teach you
to be contented and happy! What fear, what
ſhame can embitter our felicity? In the boſom of
love we might talk of virtue without a bluſh,
E v'è il piacer con l'oneſtade accanto.
Anil taſte the pleaſures innocence beſtows.
And yet a ſtrange foreboding whiſpers to my
heart, that theſe are the only days of happineſs
allotted us by heaven. Our future proſpect pre-
fents nothing to my view, but abſence, anxiety,
dangers, and difficulties. The leaſt change in
our preſent ſituation muſt neceſſarily be for the
worſe. Were we even united for ever, I am
not certain whether our happineſs would not
be deſtroyed by its exceſs; the moment of poſſef-
fion is a dangerous criſis.
I conjure thee, my kind, my only friend, to
endeavour to calm the turbulence of thoſe vain
deſires, which are always followed by regret, re-
pentance, and ſorrow. Let us peaceably enjoy
our preſent felicity. You have a pleaſure in
giving me inſtruction, and you know but too
well with what delight I liſten to be inſtructed.
Let your leſſons be yet more frequent, that we
may

E LO I SA.
77
may be as little aſunder as decency will allow.
Our abſent moments ſhall be employed in writ-
ing to each other, and thus none of the precious
time will paſs in vain, which one day poſſibly
we might give the world to recal. Would to
heaven that our preſent happineſs might end
only with our lives! To improve one's under-
ſtanding, to adorn one's mind, indulge one's
heart: can there poffibly be any addition to our
felicity?
L E T T E R X.
TO ELOISA.
How
OW entirely was my Eloiſa in the right
when ſhe ſaid that I did not yet know her
fufficiently! I conſtantly Aatter myſelf that I
have diſcovered every excellence of her ſoul,
when new beauties daily meet my obſervation,
What woman, but yourſelf, could ever unite
virtue and tenderneſs, ſo as to add new charms
to both? In ſpite of myſelf I am forced to ad-
mire and approve that prudence which deprives
me of all comfort, and there is ſomething ſo ex-
ceſſively engaging in the manner of impoſing
your prohibitions, that I almoſt receive them
with delight.
I am every day more poſitive that there is no
happineſs equal to that of being beloved by Eloiſa;
and fo entirely am I of this opinion that I would
not prefer even the perſon of Eloiſa to the poſſeſſion
D3
of
78
E LO I S A.

her heart. But, why this bitter alternative?
Can things be incompatible which are united in
nature ? Our time, you ſay, is precious; let us
enjoy our good fortune without troubling its
pure ſtream with our impatience. Be it ſo:
but ſhall we, becauſe we are moderately happy,
reject ſupreme felicity? Is not all that time loft
which might have been better employed? If it
were poflible to live a thouſand years in one
quarter of an hour, what purpoſe would it an-
fwer to tell over the tedious numbers of days as
they paſſed?
Your opinion of our preſent ſituation is very
juſt: I am convinced I ought to be happy, and
yet
I am much the reverſe. The dictates of
wiſdom may continue to flow from your lips, but
the voice of nature is ſtronger than your's: and
how can we avoid liſtening to her, when the
fi-aks the language of our own hearts? Of all
ſublunary things, I know of nothing, except
yourſelf, which deſerves a moment's attention.
Without you, nature would have no allurements :
her empire is in your charms, and there ſhe is
irreſiſtible.
Your heart, divine Eloiſa, feels none of this.
You are content to raviſh our ſenſes, and are
not at war with your own.
It ſhould ſeem that
you" ſoul is too ſublime for human paſſions, and
that you have not only the beauty but the purity
of angels-a purity which murmuring I revere,
and to which I would gladly aſpire. But, no:
I am condemned to creep upon the earth, and to
behold
E LO I SA.
79
behold Eloiſa a conſtellation in the heavens. O!
may you continue to be happy though I am
wretched ! enjoy your virtues; and perdition
catch the vile mortal who ſhall ever attempt to
tarniſh one of them! Yes, my Eloiſa, be happy,
and I will endeavour to forget my own miſery,
in the recollection of your bliſs. If I know my
heart, my love is as ſpotleſs as its adorable ob-
ject. The paſſions which your charms have en-
flamed are extinguiſhed by the purity of your
ſoul: I dare not diſturb its ſerenity. When
ever I am tempted to take the leaſt liberty, I find
myſelf reſtrained rather by the dread of inter-
rupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of
offending. In my purſuit of happineſs, I have
conſidered only in what degree it might affect
my Eloiſa; and, finding it incompatible with
her's, I can be wretched without repining.
With what inexplicable, jarring ſentiments
you have inſpired me! I am at once fubmiflive
and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks
inflame my heart with love, and when I hear
your voice I am captivated with the charms of
innocence. If ever I preſume to indulge a
wiſhful idea, it is in your abſence. Your image
in my mind is the only object of my paſſionate
adoration,
And yet I languiſh and conſume away; my
blood is all on fire, and every attempt to damp
the fame ſerves but to increaſe its fervour. Still
I have cauſe to think myſelf very happy; and
ſo I do. Surely I have little reaſon to complain,
D4
when


Conflict
bland annat
So
E L O IS A.

when I would not change my ſituation with the
greateſt monarch upon earth. But yet fome
fiend torments me, whoſe purſuits it is impoffi-
ble to elude. Methinks I would not die, and
yet I am daily expiring ; for you only I wiſh to
live, and
you alone are the cauſe of my death.
L E T T E R XI,
FROM ELOISA.
M
Y attachment to my dear friend grows
every day ſtronger; your abſence be-
comes inſupportable, and I have no relief but
in my pen. Thus, my love keeps pace with
your's; for I judge of your paſſion by your real
fear of offending : your fomer fears were only
feigned with an intent to advance your cauſe.
It is an eaſy matter to diſtinguiſh the dictates of
an afflicted heart from the frenſy of a heated
imagination, and I ſee a thouſand times more
affection in your prefent conſtraint than in
your former delirium. I know alſo that your
tituation, reſtrained as it is, is not wholly be-
reft of pleaſure. A fincere lover muſt be very
happy in making frequent ſacrifices to a grate-
ful miſtreſs, when he is aſſured that not one of
them will be forgotten, but that ſhe will treaſure
the rememberance in her heart,
But who knows whether, preſuming on my
fenfibility, this may not be a deeper, and there-
fore a more dangerous plot than the former? O,
no!


Ε Ι Ο Ι S Α.
no! the ſuſpicion was unjuſt; you certainly
cannot mean to deceive me: and yet prudence
tells me to be more ſuſpicious of compaſſion
than even of love; for I find myſelf more affec-
ted by your reſpect than by all your tranſport:
ſo that, as you are grown more honeſt, you are
become in proportion more formidable.
In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you
à truth, of which your own feelings cannot fail
to convince you: it is, that in ſpite of fortune,
parents, and of ourſelves, our fates are united
for
ever, and we can be only happy or miſerable
together. Our ſouls, if I may uſe the expreſ-
fion, touch in all points, and we feel an entire
coherence: correct me if I ſpeak unphiloſophi-
cally. Our deſtiny may part us, but cannot
diſunite us. Henceforward our pains and plea-
fures muſt be mutual; and, like the magnets,
of which I have heard you ſpeak, that have the
fame motion though in different places, we
ſhould have the ſame ſenſations at the two ex.
tremities of the world.
Baniſh, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever
entertained it, of excluſive happineſs to be pur-
chaſed at the expenſe of mine. Do not flatter
yourſelf with the idle proſpect of felicity founded
upon Eloiſa's diſhonour, or imagine that you .
could behold my ignominy and my tears with-
out horrour. Believe me, my dear friend, I know
your
heart better than your clf. A paſſion fo
tender and ſo true cannot poſſibly excite an-im-
pure defire; but we are ſo attached, that if we





D5
were
82
E LO IS A.
were on the brink of perdition it would be im-
pollible for us to fall fingly; of my ruin your's
is the inevitable conſequence.
I ſhould be glad to convince you how neceſ-
ſary it is for us both that I ſhould be entruſted
with the care of our deſtiny. Can you doubt
that you are as dear to me as myſelf, or that I
can enjoy any happineſs excluſive of your's ?
No, my dear friend, our intereſt is exactly
the ſame, but I have rather more at ſtake, and
have therefore more reaſon to be watchful. I
own I am youngeſt; but did you never obſerve
that if reaſon be generally weaker, and ſooner
apt to decay in our ſex, it alſo comes more early
to maturity than in your's? as in vegetation the
moſt feeble plants arrive ſooneft at their perfection
and difTolution. We find ourſelves, from our
firſt conception of things, entruſted with ſo
valuable a treaſure, that our dread of conſequen-
ces foon unfolds our judgement, and an early ſenſe
of our danger excites our vigilance.
In ſhort, the more I reflect upon our ſituation,
the more I am convinced that love and reaſon
join in my requeſt: fuffer yourſelf, then, to be
led by the gentle deity: for, though he is blind,
he is not an uſeleſs guide.
I am not quite certain that this language of
my heart will be perfectly intelligible to your's,
my letter will be read with the ſame emo-
tion with which it was written: nor am I con-
vinced that particular objects will ever appear
to us in the ſame light; but certain I am, that
the


or that
1
E LO IS A.
83
the advice of either which tends leaſt towards ſepa-
rate happineſs, is that which we ought to follow.
L ETTER XII.
TO
ELOISA.
O
of nature ! How plainly do I perceive in
your laſt letter the ſerenity of innocence, and
the ſollicitude of love! Your ſentiments are ex-
preſſed without art or trouble, and convey a more
delicate ſenſation to the mind than all the re-
fined periods of ſtudied elocution. Your reaſons
are incontrovertible, but urged with ſuch an
air of fimplicity, that they ſeem leſs cogent at
firſt than they really are; and your manner of
expreſſing the ſublimeſt ſentiments is fo natural
and eaſy, that without reflexion one is apt to
miſtake them for common opinions.
Yes, my Eloiſa, the care of our deſtiny ſhall
be entirely your’s : not becauſe it is your right,
but as your duty, and as a piece of juſtice I ex-
pect from your judgement, for the injury you
have done to mine. From this moment to the
end of my life, I reſign myſelf to your will ;
diſpoſe of me as of one who hath no intereſt
of his own, and whoſe exiſtence hath no con-
nexion but with you. Doubt not that I will fly
from my reſolution, be the terms you impoſe
ever ſo rigorous; for though I myſelf ſhould pro-
fit nothing by my obedience, if it adds but one
jot to your felicity I am ſufficiently rewarded.
D 6
Therefore

84
E LO I S.A.
Therefore, I relinquiſh to you, without reſerve,
the entire care of our common happineſs : ſecure
but your own and I will be ſatisfied. As for me,
who can neither forget. you a ſingle moment,
nor think of you without forbidden emotion, I
will now give my whole attention to the employ-
ment you were pleaſed to aſſign me.
It is now juſt a year ſince we began our
ſtudies, and hitherto they have been directed
partly by chance, rather with a deſign to conſult
your taſte than to improve it. Beſides, our
hearts were too much futtered to leave us the
perfect uſe of our ſenſes. Our eyes wandered
from the book, and our lips pronounced words,
without any ideas. I remember, your arch
couſin, whoſe mind was unengaged, uſed fre-
quently to reproach us with want of conception ;
ſhe ſeemed delighted to leave us behind, and
foon grew more knowing than her preceptor.
Now, though we have ſometimes ſmiled at her
pretenſions, ſhe is really the only one of the three
who retains any part of our reading.
But, to retrieve, in ſome degree, the time we
have loſt (Ah! Eloiſa, was ever time more hap-
pily ſpent?) I have formed a kind of plan, which
may poffibly, by the advantage of method, in ſome
meaſure compenſate our neglect. I ſend it youen-
cloſed; we will read it together; at preſent I ſhall
only make a few generalobfervationson the ſubject.
If, my charming friend, we were inclined to
parade with our learning, and to ſtudy for the
world rather than for ourſelves, my ſyſtem would
be




E LO I SA.
85
be a bad one;
for it tends only to extract a little
from a vaſt multiplicity of things, and from a
large library to ſelect a ſmall number of books.
Science, in general, may be conſidered as a
coin of great value, but of uſe to the poſſeſſor
only in as much as it is communicated to others;
it is valuable but as a commodity in traffick.
Take from the learned the pleaſure of being
heard, and their love of knowledge would va-
niſh. They do not ſtudy to obtain wiſdom,
but the reputation of it: philoſophy would have
no charms if the philoſopher had no admirers,
For our parts, who have no deſign but to im-
prove our minds, it will be moſt adviſeable to
read little and think much; or, which is better,
frequently to talk over the ſubjects on which we
have been reading. I am of opinion, when
once' the underſtanding is a little developed by
reflexion, it is better to reaſon for ourſelves
than to depend upon books for the diſcovery of
truth; for by that means it will make a much
ſtronger impreſſion : whilſt on the contrary, by
taking things for granted, we view objects by
halves, and in a borrowed light. We are born
rich, ſays Montagne, and yet our whole educa-
tion conſiſts in borrowing. We are taught to
accumulate continually, and, like true miſers, we
chooſe rather to uſe the wealth of other men,
than break into our own ſtore.
I confeſs there are niany people whom the me-
thod I propoſe would not ſuit, who ought to read
much and think little, becauſe every borrowed
reflexion



86
E LOIS A.
to
reflexion is better than any thing they could
have produced. But I recommend the contrary
you,
who improve upon every book you read,
Let us, therefore, mutually communicate our
ideas; I will relate the opinions of others, then
you ſhall tell me your's upon the ſame ſubject,
and thus ſhall I frequently gather more inſtruc-
tion from our lecture than yourſelf.
The more we contract our circle, the more
neceſſary it is to be circumſpect in the choice of
our authours. The grand errour of young ftu-
dents, as I told you before, is a too implicit de-
pendence upon books, and too much diffidence
in their own capacity; without reflecting that
they are much leſs liable to be miſled by their
own reaſon, than by the ſophiſtry of ſyſtemati-
cal writers. If we would but conſult our own
feelings, we ſhould eaſily diſtinguiſh virtue and
beauty: we do not want to be taught either of
theſe: but examples of extreme virtue and ſu-
perlative beauty are leſs common, and theſe are
therefore more difficult to be underſtood. Our
vanity leads us to miſtake our own weakneſs for
that of nature, and to think thoſe qualities chi-
merical which we do not perceive within our-
ſelves; idleneſs and vice reſt upon pretended
impoſſibility, and men of little genius conclude
that things which are uncommon have no ex-
iſtence. Theſe errours we muſt endeavour
to eradicate, and, by uſing ourſelves to contem-
plate grand objects, deſtroy the notion of their
impoſſibility: thus, by degrees, our emulation
is




E L O IS A.
87
is rouzed by example, our taſte refines, and
every thing indifferent becomes intolerable.
But let us not have recourſe to books for prin-
ciples which may be found within ourſelves.
What have we to do with the idle diſputes of
philoſophers concerning virtue and happineſs?
Let us rather employ that time in being virtuous
and happy which others waſte in fruitleſs en-
quiries after the means: let us rather imitate
great examples, than buſy ourſelves with ſyſtems
and opinions.
I always believed, that virtue was in reality
active beauty; or at leaſt that they were inti-
mately connected, and ſprang from the ſame
fource in nature. From this idea it follows,
that wiſdom and taſte are to be improved by the
ſame means, and that a mind truely ſenſible of
the charms of virtue muſt receive an equal im-
preſfion from every other kind of beauty. Yet,
accurate and refined perceptions are to be ac-
quired only by habit; and hence it is, that we
ſee a painter, in viewing a fine proſpect or a good
picture, in raptures at certain objects, which
a common obſerver would not even have ſeen.
How many real impreſſions do we perceive,
which we cannot account for? How many fe-
ne-fais-quois frequently occur, which taſte only
can determine? Taſte is, in fome degree, the
microſcope of judgement; it brings ſmall objects
to our view, and its operations begin where thoſe
of judgement end. How then ſhall we proceed
in its cultivation? By exerciſing our fight as
well


88
E LO IS A.
well as feeling, and by judging of the beautiful
from inſpection, as we judge of virtue from
ſenſation. I am perſuaded there may be ſome
hearts upon which the firſt fight even of Eloiſa
would make no impreſſion.
For this reaſon, my lovely ſcholar, I limit
your ſtudies to books of taſte and manners.
For this reaſon, changing my precepts into ex-
amples, I ſhall give you no other definitions of
virtue than the pictures of virtuous men; nor
other rules for writing well, than books which
are well written.
Be not ſurpriſed that I have thus contracted
the circle of your ſtudies; it will certainly render
them more uſeful: I am convinced, by daily
experience, that all inſtruction which tends not
to improve the mind is not worthy your atten-
tion. We will diſmiſs the languages, except
the Italian, which you underſtand and admire.
We will diſcard our elements of algebra and
geometry. We would even quit our philofophy,
were it not for the utility of its terms. We
will, for ever, renounce modern hiſtory, except
that of our own country, and that only on ac:
count of our liberty, and the ancient fimplicity
of our manners: for let nobody perſuade you
that the hiſtory of one's own country is the
moſt intereſting--it is falfe. The hiſtory of ſome
countries will not even bear reading. The moſt
intereſting hiſtory is, that which furniſhes the
moſt examples, manners, and characters; in a
word, the moſt inſtruction. We are told that

we
E LO IS A.
89

we poſſeſs all theſe in as great a degree as the
ancients; but, turn to their hiſtories, and you
will be convinced that this is alſo a miſtake.
There are people, whoſe faces are ſo unmean-
ing, that the beſt painter cannot catch their
likeneſs, and there are governments ſo uncha-
racteriſtick as to want no hiſtorian; but able
hiſtorians will never be wanting where there is
matter deſerving the pen of a good writer. In
ſhort, they tell us that men are alike in all ages,
that their virtues and vices are the ſame, and
that we admire the ancients only becauſe they
are ancients. This is alſo falſe-in former times
great effects were produced by trilling cauſes,
but in our days it is juſt the reverſe. The an-
cients were contemporary with their hiſtorians,
and yet we have learnt to admire them : fhould
pofterity ever admire our modern hiſtorians, they
certainly will not have grounded their opinion
upon our's.
Out of regard to our conſtant companion I con-
ſent to a few volumes of belles-lettres, which I
ſhould not have recommended to you. Except
Petrarch, Taffo, Metaftafio, and the beſt
French theatrical authours, I leave you none of
thoſe ainorous poets, which are the common
amuſement of your ſex. The moſt inſpired of
them all cannot teach us to love? Ah! Eloiſa,
we are better inſtructed by our own hearts! The
phraſes borrowed from books are cold and infipid
to us who ſpeak the language of our ſouls. It is
a kind of reading which cramps the imagination,
enervates

90
E L O IS A.
enervates the mind, and dims its original bright-
neſs. On the contrary, real love influences all our
ſentiments, and animates them with new vigour,
LETTER XIII.
FROM
ELOISA.
Told
I
you we were happy, and nothing proves
it more than the uneaſineſs we feel upon the
leaſt change in our ſituation: if it were not true,
why ſhould two days ſeparation give us ſo much
pain? I ſay us, for I know my friend ſhares my
impatience ; he feels my uneaſineſs; and is un-
happy upon his own account: but, to tell me
this were now fuperfluous.
We have been in the country ſince laſt night
only; the hour is not yet come in which I ſhould
ſee you if I were in town; and
yet
this diſtance
makes me already find your abſence almoſt in.
ſupportable. If you had not prohibited geo-
metry, I ſhould ſay that my inquietude increaſes
in a compound ratio of the intervals of time and
ſpace; ſo ſenſible am I that the pain of abſence
is increaſed by diſtance. I have brought with
me your letter, and your plan of ſtudy, for my
meditation ; I have read the firſt already twice
over, and own I was a good deal affected with the
concluſion. I perceive, my dear friend, that
your paſſion deſerves the name of real love, be-
cauſe you ſtill preſerve your ſenſe of honour,
and are capable of ſacrificing every thing to
virtue.

E L O IS A.
91
virtue, To delude a woman in the diſguiſe of
her preceptor is ſurely, of all the wiles of ſeduc-
tion, the moſt un pardonable; and he muſt have
very little reſource in himſelf, who would at-
tempt to move his miſtreſs by the aſſiſtance of
romance. If you had availed yourſelf of phi-
loſophy to forward your deſigns, or if you had
endeavoured to eſtabliſh maxims fayourable to
your intereſt, thoſe very methods of deceit would
ſoon have undeceived me; but you have more
honeſty, and are therefore more dangerous.
From the firſt moment I perceived in my heart
the leaſt ſpark of love, and the deſire of a laſting
attachment, I petitioned heaven to unite me to
a man whoſe foul was rather amiable than his
perſon; for well I knew the charms of the mind
were leaſt liable to diſguſt, and that probity and
honour adorn every ſentiment of the heart. I
choſe with propriety, and therefore, like Solo-
mon, I have obtained, not only what I aſked
for, but alſo what I did not aſk. I look upon
this as a good omen, and I do not deſpair but I
ſhall, one day, have it in my power to make my
dear friend as happy as he deſerves. We have
indeed many obſtacles to ſurmount, and the ex-
pedients are flow, doubtful, and difficult. I dare
not flatter myſelf too much : be aſſured, how-
ever, that nothing ſhall be forgotten which the
united efforts of love and patience can accom-
pliſh. Mean while, continue to humour my
mother, and prepare yourſelf for the return of
father, who at laſt retires, after thirty years ſer-



vices.
E L O IS A.
vices. You muſt learn to endure the haughtineſs
of a haſty old gentleman, jealous of his honour,
who will love you without fattering, and eſteem
you without many profeſſions.
I broke off here to take a ramble in the neigh-
bouring woods. You, my amiable friend--you
were my companion-or rather I carried you
in my heart. I ſought thoſe paths which I ima-
gined we ſhould have trod, and marked the ſhades
which ſeemed worthy to receive us, The de-
lightful ſolitude of the groves ſeemed to heighten
our ſenſibility, and the woods themſelves ap-
peared to receive additional beauty from the pre-
fence of two ſuch faithful lovers.
Amidſt the natural bowers of this charming
place, there is one ſtill more beautiful than the
reft, with which I am moſt delighted, and where
for that reaſon I intend to ſurpriſe you. It muſt
not be ſaid that I want generoſity to reward
your conſtant reſpect. I would convince you,
in ſpite of vulgar opinions, that voluntary fa-
vours are more valuable than thoſe obtained by
importunity. But, left the ſtrength of your ima-
gination ſhould lead you too far, I muſt inform
you, that we will not viſit theſe pleaſant bowers
without my conſtant companion
Now I have mentioned my couſin, I am de-
termined, if it does not diſpleaſe you, that you
Thall accompany her hither on Monday next.
You muſt not fail to be with her at ten o'clock.
My mother's chaiſe will be there about that
time; you ſhall ſpend the whole day with us,
and

E L OIS A.
93
and we will return all together the next day after
dinner.
I had written fo far when I bethought myſelf,
that I have not the ſame opportunity here, for
the conveyance of my letter, as in town. I
once had an inclination to ſend you one of your
books by Guſtin the gardener's ſon, and ſo en-
cloſe my letter in the cover : but as there is a poffi-
bility that you may not be aware of this contri-
vance, it would be unpardonably imprudent to
riſk our all on fo precarious a bottom. I muſt,
therefore, be contented to fignify the intended
rendezvous on Monday by a billet, and I my-
ſelf will give you this letter. Beſides, I was a
little apprehenfive left you might comment too
freely on the myſtery of the bower.,

L ET TER XIV.
TO ELOISA.
A
you are the
H! Eloiſa, Eloiſa ! what have you done?
You meant to reward me, and
cauſe of my ruin--I am intoxicated, or, rather,
I am mad— My brains are turned-all my ſenſes
are diſordered by this fatal kiſs. You deſigned
to alleviate my pain ; but you have cruelly in-
creaſed my torment. The poiſon I have imbibed
from your lips will deſtroy me—my blood boils
within my veins--I ſhall die, and your pity will
but haften my death.
O im-
94
E L OIS A.
O immortal rememberance of that illuſive,
frantick, and enchanting moment! Never,
never to be effaced ſo long as Eloiſa lives within
my ſoul.-Till my heart is deprived of all ſenſa-
tion, thou wilt continue to be the happineſs and
torment of my life!
Alas! I poſſeſſed an apparent tranquillity ;
reſigned myſelf entirely to your ſupreme will,
and never murmured at the fate
you condeſcended
to preſcribe. I had conquered the impetuous
fallies of my imagination--I diſguiſed my looks,
and put a lock upon my heart-I but half ex-
preſſed my defires, and was as content as poſſible.
Thus your billet found me, and I few to your
couſin: we arrived at Clarens ; my heart beat
quick at the fight of my beloved Eloiſa; her
ſweet voice cauſed a ſtrange emotion; I became
almoſt tranſported, and it was lucky for me that
your couſin was preſent to engage your mother's
attention. We rambled in the garden, dined
comfortably, you found an opportunity, un-
perceived, to give me your charming letter,
which I durſt not open before this formidable
witneſs; the ſun began to decline, and we haft-
ened to the woods for the benefit of the ſhade.
Alas! I was quite happy, and I did not even
conceive a ſtate of greater bliſs.
As we approached the bower, I perceived,
not without a ſecret emotion, your fignificant
winks, your mutual ſmiles, and the increaſing
glow in thy charming cheeks. Soon as we en-
tered, I was ſurprifed to ſee your couſin ap-
proach
E LO I SA.
95


proach me, and with an affected air of humility,
aſk me for a kiſs. Without comprehending
the myſtery, I complied with her requeſt; and,
charming as ſhe is, I never could have had a
more convincing proof of the inſipidity of thoſe
ſenſations which proceed not from the heart.
But what became of me a moment after, when
I felt-my hands ſhook gentle tremour-
thy balmy lips--my Eloiſa's lips-touch,
preſſed to mine, and myſelf within her arms?
Quicker than lightening a ſudden fire darted
through my ſoul : I ſeemed all over ſenſible of
the raviſhing condeſcenſion, and my heart funk
down oppreſſed with inſupportable delight, ,
when all at once I perceived your colour change,
your eyes cloſe; you leant upon your couſin,
and fainted away. Fear extinguiſhed all my
joy, and my happineſs vanquiſhed like a ſha-
dow.
I ſcarce know any thing that has paſſed ſince
that fatal moment. The impreſſion it has made
on my heart will never be effaced. A favour!
it is an extreme torment—No, keep thy
kiſſes--I cannot bear them--they are too pene-
trating, too painful--they diſtract me. Iam
no more myſelf, and you appear to me no more
the ſame object. You ſeem not as formerly
chiding and ſevere; but, methinks I fee and
feel you lovely and tender as at that happy in-
ftant when I preſſed you to my boſom. O Eloiſa!
whatever may be the conſequence of my ungo-
vernable paſſion, ufe me as ſeverely as you pleaſe,



I can

96
E LO I SA.
I cannot exiſt in my preſent condition, and I
perceive I muſt at laſt expire at your
feetor
in your arins.
LET T E R XV.
FROM
ELOISA.
I
T is neceſſary, my dear friend, that we ſhould
part for ſome time: I aſk it as the firſt proof
of that obedience you have ſo often promiſed.
If I am urgent in my requeſt, you may be afſu-
red I have good reaſon for it: indeed I have, and
you are too well convinced that I muſt, to be
able to take this reſolution; for your part you
will be ſatisfied fince it is my deſire.
You have long talked of taking a journey into
Valais. I wiſh you would determine to go be-
fore the approach of the winter. Autumn, in
this country, ſtill wears a mild and ſerene aſpect;
but you ſee the tops of the mountains are already
white, and fix weeks later you ſhould not have
my conſent to take fuch a rough journey. Re-
folve, therefore, to ſet out to-morrow: you will
write to me by the direction which I ſhall fend,
and you will give me your’s when you arrive at
Sion.
You would never acquaint me with the fitua-
tion of your affairs; but you are not in your
own country; your fortune I know is ſmall,
and I am perſuaded you muſt diminiſh it here,
where
5


E L I S A
where you ſtay only on my account. I look
upon myſelf therefore as your purſe-bearer, and
ſend you a ſmall matter in the little box, which
you muſt not open before the bearer. I will
not anticipate difficulties, and I have too great
an eſteem for you to believe you capable of
making any on this occaſion.
I beg you will not return without my per-
miffion, and alſo that you will take no leave of
You may write to my mother or me, merely
to inform us that ſome unforeſeen buſineſs re-
quires your preſence ; that you are obliged to
depart immediately; and you may, if you pleaſe,
ſend me fome directions concerning my ſtudies,
till you return. You muſt be careful to avoid
the leaſt appearance of myſtery. Adieu, my
dear friend, and forget not that you take with
you
the heart and ſoul of Eloiſa.
US.
LETTER XVI.
ANSWER,
E
VERY line of your terrible letter made
me ſhudder. But I will obey you: I have
promiſed, and it is my duty-yes, you ſhall be
obeyed. But you cannot conceive-no, barba-
rous Eloiſa, you will never comprehend how
this cruel ſacrifice affects my heart. There
wanted not the tryal in the bower to increaſe my
ſenſibility. It was a mercileſs refinement of
VOL. I
inhumanity,

98
E LO IS A.
inhumanity, and I now defy you to make me
more miſerable.
I return your box unopened. To add igno-
miny to cruelty is too much : you are, indeed,
the miſtreſs of my fate, but not of my honour.
I will myſelf preſerve this ſacred depoſit. Alas !
it is the only treaſure I have left! and I will
never part with it ſo long as I live.
L E T T E R XVII.
REPLY.
Y:
OUR letter excites my compaffion; it
is the only ſenſeleſs thing you have ever
written.
I affront your honour! I would rather facri-
fice my life. Do you believe it poſſible that I
ſhould mean to injure your honour ? Ingrate !
too well thou knoweſt that for thy fake I had
almoſt ſacrificed my own. But, tell
But, tell me, what is
this honour which I have offended ? Aſk thy gro-
veling heart, thy indelicate ſoul. How deſpicable
art thou if thou haſt no honour but that which is
unknown to Eloiſa! Shall thoſe whoſe hearts are
one ſcruple to ſhare their poſſeſſions ? Shall
he who calls himſelf mine refuſe my gifts ?
Since when is it become diſhonourable to receive
from thoſe we love! But the man is deſpiſed
whoſe wants exceed his fortune. Deſpiſed! by
whom? By thoſe abject ſouls who place their
honour in their wealth, and eſtimate their virtue
by
E LO I 5 A
99.
by their weight of gold. But, is this the honour
of a good man? Is virtue leſs honourable be-
cauſe it is poor?
Undoubtedly, there are preſents which a man
of honour ought not to accept; but I muſt tell
you, thoſe are equally diſhonourable to the
per-
ſon by whom they are offered; and that what
may be given with honour, it cannot be diſho-
nourable to receive: now, my heart is ſo far from
reproaching me with what I did, that it glories
in the motive. Nothing can be more deſpicable
than a man whoſe love and affiduities are bought,
except the woman by whom they are purchaſed.
But where two hearts are united, it is ſo reaſon-
able and juſt that their fortunes ſhould be in
common,
that if I have reſerved more than my
ſhare, I think myſelf indebted to you for the
overplus. If the favours of love are rejected,
how ſhall our hearts expreſs their gratitude ?
But, left
you ſhould imagine that in my dea
fign to ſupply your wants I was inattentive to
my own, I will give you an indiſputable proof
of the contrary. Know, then, that the purſe
which I now return contains double the fum
it held before, and that I could have redoubled
it if I had pleaſed. My father gives me a cer-
tain allowance, moderate indeed, but which
my mother's kindneſs renders it unneceſſary for
me to touch. As to my lace and embroidery,
they are the produce of my own induſtry. It is
true, I was not always ſo rich; but, I know
not how, my attention to a certain fatal paſſion
has

E 2
100
E LO IS A.
has of late made me neglect a thouſand little ex-
penſive fuperfluities; which is another reaſon
why I ſhould diſpoſe of it in this manner : it is
but juſt that you ſhould be humbled as a puniſh-
ment for the evil you have cauſed, and that love
ſhould expiate the crimes it occaſions.
But, to the point. You ſay your honour will
not fuffer you to accept my gift. If this be true,
I have nothing more to ſay, and am entirely of
opinion that you cannot be too poſitive in this
reſpect. If, therefore, you can prove this to be
the caſe, I defire it may be done clearly, incon-
teftably, and without evaſion ; for you know I
hate all appearance of fophiftry. You may
then return the purfe; I will receive it without
complaining, and you ſhall hear no more of this
affair.
You will be pleaſed, however, to remember,
that I neither like falfe honour, nor people who
are affectedly punctilious. If you return the
box without a juſtification, or if your juſtifica-
tion be not ſatisfactory, we muſt meet no more.
Think of this! Adieu !

L E T T E R XVIII.
TO ELOISA.
I
Received your preſent--I departed without
taking leave, and am now a conſiderable di-
ſtance from you. Am I ſufficiently obedient?
Is
your tyranny ſatisfied?

I can

E LO I SA
101

I can give you wo account of my journey ; for
I remember nothing more than that I was three
days in travelling twenty leagues. Every ſtep I
took ſeemed to tear my ſoul from my body, and
to anticipate the pain of death. I intended to
have given you a deſcription of the country
through which I paſſed. Vain project! I be-
held nothing but you, and can deſcribe nothing
but Eloiſa. The repeated emotions of my heart
threw me into a continued diſtraction: I imagi-
ned myſelf to be where I was not: I had hardly
ſenſe enough left to aſk or follow my road,
and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving
Vevgi.
Thus I have diſcovered the ſecret of eluding
your cruelty, and of ſeeing you without diſobey-
ing your command. No, Eloiſa, with all your
rigour, it is not in your power to ſeparate me
from you entirely. I have dragged into exile
but the moſt inconfiderable part of myſelf; my
ſoul muſt remain with you for ever: with im-
punity it explores your beauty, dwells in rap-
ture upon every charm; and I am happier in
deſpite of you than I ever was by your per-
miffion.
Unfortunately, I have here fonie people to
viſit, and ſome neceſſary buſineſs to tranſact. I
am leaſt wretched in folitude, where I can em-
ploy all my thoughts upon Eloiſa, and tranſport
myſelf to her in imagination. Every employ-
ment which calls off my attention is become
inſupportable. I will hurry over my affairs,
that

E 3
E L O I S A.
that I may be ſoon at liberty to wander through
the folitary wilds of this delightful country.
Since I muſt not live with you, I will ſhun all
ſociety with mankind.
LET TER XIX.
TO ELOISA.
I
Am now detained here only by your order.
Thoſe five days have been more than fuffi-
cient to finiſh my own concerns, if things may be
fo called in which the heart has no intereſt :
ſo that now you have no pretence to prolong my
exile, unleſs with deſign to torment me.
I begin to be very uneaſy about the fate of
my firſt letter. It was written and ſent by the
polt immediately upon my arrival, and the dia
rection was exactly copied from that which you
tranſmitted me: I ſent you mine with equal
care: ſo that if you had anſwered me punctual-
ly, I muſt have received your letter before now.
Yet this letter does not appear, and there is no
poſſible fatality which I have not ſuppoſed to be
the cauſe of its delay. O Eloiſa, how many
unforeſeen accidents may have happened in the
ſpace of one week, to diffolve the moſt perfect
union that ever existed! I thudder to think that
there are a thouſand means to make me miſer-
able, and only one by which I can poſſibly be
happy. Eloiſa, is it that I am forgotten! God
forbid! that were to be miſerable indeed. I
am


E LO I SA.
the powers
am prepared for any other misfortune; but all
of
my
ſoul ficken at the bare idea of
that.
O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my
fears are groundleſs, and yet my apprehenſions
continue. The bitterneſs of my misfortunes
increaſes daily; and, as if real evils were not
fufficient to-depreſs my ſoul, my fears ſupply
me with imaginary ones to add weight to the
others. At firſt my grief was much more toler-
able. The trouble of a ſudden departure, and
the journey itſelf were ſome ſort of diffipation !
but this peaceful folitude aſſembles all my woes.
Like a wounded ſoldier, I felt but little pain
till after I had retired from the field.
How often have I laughed at a lover, in ro-
mance, bemoaning the abſence of his miſtreſs!
Little did I imagine that your abſence would ever
be ſo intolerable to me! I am now fenfible how
improper it is for a mind at reft to judge of other
men's paſſions; and how fooliſh, to ridicule the
ſenſations we have never felt. I muſt confeſs,
however, I have great conſolation in reflecting
that I ſuffer by your command. The ſufferings
which you are pleaſed to ordain are much leſs
painful than if they were inflicted by the hand of
fortune; if they give you any fatisfaction, I
ſhould be ſorry not to have ſuffered: they are
the pledges of their reward; I know you too
well to believe you would exerciſe barbarity for
its own fake.
E 4
If
104
E LO IS A.
If your deſign be to put me to the proof, I
will murmur no more. It is but juſt that you
fhould know whether I am conſtant, endued
with patience, docility ; and, in thort, worthy
of the bliſs you deſign me.
Gods! if this be
your idea, I ſhall complain that I have not ſuf-
fered half enough. Ah, Eloiſa, for heaven's
fake fupport the flattering expectation in my
beart, and invent, if you can, fome torment
better proportioned to the reward.
L E T T E R
XX.
you reached
FROM ELOISA.
I
Received both your letters at once, and I
perceive, by your anxiety in the ſecond con-
cerning the fate of the other, that when imagi-
mation takes the lead of reaſon, the latter is not
always in haſte to follow, but ſuffers her, ſome-
times, to proceed alone. Did you ſuppoſe,
when
Sion, that the poſt
waited only for your letter, that it would be
delivered to me the inſtant of his arrival here,
and that my anſwer would be favoured with equal
deſpatch ? No, no, my good friend, things
do not always go on ſo ſwimmingly. Your
two epiſtles came both together; becauſe the
poſt happened not to ſet out till after he had re-
ceived the ſecond. It requires ſome time to di-
ſtribute the letters ; my agent has not always an
immediate opportunity of meeting me alone,
and
E LO IS A.
103

and the poſt from hence does not return the day
after his arrival: ſo that all things calculated,
it muſt be at leaſt a week before we can receive
an anſwer one from the other. This I have ex-
plained to you with a deſign, once for all, to
ſatisfy your impatience. Whilſt you are ex-
claiming againſt fortune and my negligence, you
ſee that I have been bufied in obtaining the in-
formation neceſſary to inſure our correſpondence,
and prevent your anxiety. Which of us have
been beſt employed, I leave to your own deci-
fion,
Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain;
rather partake the joy I feel at the return of my
kind father, after a tedious abſence of eight
months. He arrived on Thurſday evening,
ſince which happy moment I have thought of no-
body elſe*. O thou, whom, next to the Au-
thour of my being, I love more than all the
world! why muſt thy letters, thy complainings
affect my ſoul, and interrupt the firſt tranſports
of a re-united, happy family?
You expect to monopoliſe my whole atten-
tion. But, tell me, could you love a girl whoſe
paſſion for her lover could extinguiſh all affection
for her parents? Would you, becauſe you are
uneaſy, have me inſenſible to the endearments of
a kind father? No, my worthy friend, you
muſt not embitter my innocent joy by your un-
juſt reproaches. You, who have ſo much fen-
fibility,
The Lady ſeems to have forgot what ſhe ſaid in the
preceding paragraph,



E 5
106
E L O IS A.
parent. Do
fibility, can ſurely conceive the ſacred pleaſures
of being preiled to the throbbing heart of a tender
Do you think that in thoſe delight-
ful moments it is poſſible to divide one's affec-
tion?
Solche fon figlia io mi rammento adejo.
When all I think of, is that I'm his child.
Yet, you are not to imagine I can forget you.
Do we ever forget what we really love ? No, the
more lively impreſſions of a moment have no
power to efface the other. I was not unaffected
with your departure hence, and ſhall not be dir-
pleaſed to ſee you return. But-be patient,
like me, becauſe you muſt, without aſking any
other reaſon. Be aſſured that I will recall you
as ſoon as it is in my power ; and remember,
that thoſe who complain loudeſt of abſence do
not always ſuffer moſt.
LE TT ER XXI.
H
TO ELOISA.
OW was I tormented in receiving the
letter which I fo impatiently expected! I
waited at the poſt-houſe. The mail was ſcarce
opened before I gave in my name, and began to
importune the man. He told me there was a
letter for me--my heart leaped I aſked for it
with great impatience, and at laſt received it.
O Eloiſa! how I rejoiced to behold the well-
known hand! A thouſand times would I have
kiſſed


E LO I SA.
107
kiſſed the precious characters, but I wanted re-
ſolution to preſs the letter to my lips, or to open
it before ſo many witneſſes. Immediately I re-
tired; my knees trembled; I ſcarce knew my
way; I broke the ſeal the moment I had paſſed
the firſt turning, I ran over, or rather devoured,
the dear lines, till I came to that part which ſo
movingly ſpeaks your tenderneſs and affection
for your venerable father-I wept; I was ob-
ſerved; I then retired to a place of greater privacy,
and there mingled my joyful tears with your’s.
With tranſport I embraced your happy father,
though I hardly remember him. The voice of
nature reminded me of my own, and I ſhed freſh
tears to his memory.
O incomparable Eloiſa! what can you poſſibly
learn of me? It is from you only can be learnt
every thing that is great and good, and eſpecially
that divine union of nature, love, and virtue,
which never exiſted but in you. Every virtuous
affection is diſtinguiſhed in your heart by a ſen-
fibility fo peculiar to yourſelf, that for the better
regulation of my own, as my actions are already
ſubmitted to your will, I perceive my ſenti-
ments alſo muſt be determined by your's.
Yet, what a difference there is between your
fituation and mine! I do not mean as to rank
or fortune; ſincere affection, and dignity of fouly,
want none of theſe. But you are ſurrounded by
a number of kind friends who adore you--2.
tender mother, and a father who loves you as
his only hopema friend and couſin who ſeems to
E 6
breathe
103
E LO I SA.
breathe only for your fake: you are the ornament
and oracle of an entire family, the boaſt and ad-
miration of a whole town--theſe, all theſe, di-
vide your ſenſibility, and what remains for love
is but a ſmall part in compariſon of that which
is raviſhed from you by duty, nature, and friend-
ſhip. But I, alas! a wanderer without a fa-
mnily, and almoſt without country, have no one
but you upon earth, and am poſſeſſed of nothing
but my love. Be not, therefore, ſurpriſed,
though your heart may have more ſenſibility,
that mine ſhould know better how to love; and,
that you, who excel me in every thing elſe, muft
yield to me in this reſpect.
You need not, however, be apprehenſive left
I ſhould indiſcreetly trouble you with my com-
plaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy, be-
cauſe it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature
laudable. Imagination ſhall repreſent the pathe-
tick ſcene; and ſince I have no happineſs of my
own, I will endeavour to enjoy your's.
Whatever may be your reaſons for prolong-
ing my abſence, I believe them juft; but, though
I knew them to be otherwiſe, what would that
avail? Have I not promiſed implicit obedience?
Can I ſuffer more in being filent, than in parting
from you? But remember, Eloiſa, your ſoul now
directs two ſeparate bodies, and that the one the
animates by choice will continuethe moſt faithful.
-Nodo piu forte:
Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte.
Joined by the ſtrongeſt bonds,
Which we ourſelves, and not blind fortune, tied.
No,
E LO I SA.
10g
No, Eloiſa, you ſhall hear no repining. Till
you are pleaſed to recall me from exile, I will
try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring the
mountains of Valais, whilſt they are yet prac-
ticable. I am of opinion that this unfrequented
country deſerves the attention of ſpeculative cu.
rioſity, and that it wants nothing to excite ad-
miration but a ſkilful fpe&tator. Perhaps, my
excurſion may give rife to a few obſervations
that may not be entirely undeſerving your peru-
fal. To amuſe a fine lady one thould deſcribe
a witty and polite nation; but I know my
Eloiſa will have more pleaſure in a picture where
fimplicity of manners and rural happineſs are the
principal objects.
L E T TER XXII.
A A
FROM ELOISA.
T length the ice is broken--you have been
mentioned. Notwithſtanding your poor
opinion of my learning, it was ſufficient to ſur-
priſe my father; nor was he leſs pleaſed with
my progreſs in muſick and drawing*: Indeed, to
the great aſtoniſhment of my mother, who was
prejudiced by your impoſitiont on her, he was
fatisfied
A mighty accompliſhed ſcholar at twenty years of age
to have acquired ſuch a variety of improvement. At thir-
ty, indeed, ſhe felicitates herſelf that ſhe is no longer ſo
very knowing.
† Alluding to a letter written by him to her mother in a
very equivocal ftile, which is fuppreſſed,

110
E LO IS A.
fatisfied with my improvement in every thing ex-
cept heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected.
But all this could not be acquired without a
maſter: I told him mine, enumerating at the ſame
time all the ſciences he propoſed to teach me,
except one. He remembers to have ſeen you ſe-
veral times on his laſt journey, and does not ap-
pear to retain any impreſſion to your diſadvantage,
He then enquired about your fortune?--He was
told it was not great.-Your birth?--he was
anſwered, honeſt. This word honeſt ſounds very
equivocal in the ears of nobility: it excited ſome
fufpicions, which were confirmed in the ex-
planation. As ſoon as he was informed that
your birth was not noble, he aſked what you
had been paid per month. My mother replied,
that
you had not only refuſed to accept a ftipend,
but that you had even rejected every preſent ſhe
had offered. This pride of your's ſerved but to
enflame his own-who, indeed, could bear the
thought of being obliged to a poor pleb-ian?
Therefore, it was determined that a ftipend
ſhould be offered, and that, in caſe you
refuſed
it, notwithſtanding your merit, you ſhould be
diſmiſſed.–Such, my friend, is the reſult of a
converſation held concerning my moſt honoured
maſter, during which his very humble ſcholar
was not entirely at eaſe. I thought I could not
be in too great haſte to give you this informa-
tion, that you might have ſufficient time to con-
fider it maturely. When you are come to a
reſolution, do not fail to let me know it; for it
is
E L O I S A.
ts a matter entirely within your own province,
and beyond my juriſdiction.
I am not much pleaſed with your intended ex-
curſion to the mountains : not that I think it
will prove an unentertaining diflipation, or that
your narrative will not give me pleaſure; but I
am fearful left you may not be able to ſupport the
fatigue. Beſides, the ſeaſon is already too far
advanced. The hills will ſoon be covered with
ſnow, and you may poſſibly ſuffer as much from
cold as fatigue. If you ſhould fall fick in that
diſtant country, I ſhould be inconſolable. Come
therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your
Eloiſa: it is not yet time to return to Vevai; but
I would have you leſs rudely ſituated, and ſo as
to facilitate our correſpondence. I leave the
choice of place to yourſelf: only take care that
it be kept ſecret from the people here, and be
diſcreet without being myſterious. I know you
will be prudent for your own ſake, but doubly
fo for mine.
Adieu! I am forced to break off. You know
I am obliged to be very cautious. But this is
not all: my father has brought with him a vene-
rable ſtranger, his old friend, who once ſaved
his life in battle. Judge, then, of the reception
he deſerves! To-morrow he leaves us, and we
are impatient to procure him every ſort of enter-
tainment that will beſt expreſs our gratitude to
ſuch a benefactor. I am called, and muſt finiſh.
Once more, adieu!
L E T TER
112
E L O I S A.
L Ε Τ Τ Ε R XXIII.
TO ELOISA.
I
Have employed fcarce eight days in ſurveying
a country that would require ſome years.
But, beſides that I was driven off by the ſnow,
I choſe to be before the poſt who brings me, I
hope, a letter from Eloiſa. In the mean time
begin this, and ſhall afterwards, if it be neceſ-
ſary, write another in anſwer to that which I
ſhall receive.
I do not intend to give you an account of my
journey in this letter; you fh all fee
my
remarks
when we meet; they would take up too much
of our precious correſpondence. For the preſent,
it will be ſufficient to acquaint you with the
fituation of my heart. It is but juſt to render
you an account of that which is entirely your's.
I ſet out dejected with my own ſufferings,
but conſoled with your joy; which held me
ſuſpended in a ſtate of langour that is not dif-
agreeable to true ſenſibility. Under the conduct
of a very honeſt guide, I crawled up the
towering hills, through many a rugged, unfre-
quented path. Often would I muſe, and then,
at once, ſome unexpected object caught my at-
tention. One moment I beheld ftupendous
rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next
I was enveloped in a drizzling cloud, which aroſe
from a vaſt caſcade that daſhing thundered against
the rocks below my feet; on one fide, a perpe-
tual torrent opened to my view a yawning abyſs,
which
E LO I SA.
113
which my eyes could hardly fathom with ſafety;
fometimes I was loſt in the obſcurity of a hang-
ing wood, and then was agreeably aſtoniſhed
with the ſudden opening of a flowery plain. A
furprifing mixture of wild and cultivated nature
points out the hand of man, where one wouldima-
gine man had never penetrated. Here you behold
a horrid cavern, and there a human habitation;
vineyards where one would expect nothing but
brambles ; delicious fruit among barren rocks, and
corn-fields in the midſt of cliffs and precipices.
But it is not labour only that renders this ſtrange
country ſo wonderfully contraſted; for here na-
ture ſeems to have a fingular pleaſure in acting
contradictory to herſelf, fo different does ſhe ap-
pear in the ſame place in different aſpects. To-
wards the eaſt the flowers of ſpring-to the ſouth
the fruits of autumn-and northwards the ice of
winter. She unites all the ſeaſons in the fame
infant, every climate in the ſame place, different
foils on the ſame land, and, with a harmony
elſewhere unknown, joins the produce of the
plains to thoſe of the higheſt Alps. Add to theſe,
the illuſions of viſion, the tops of the mountains
variouſly illumined, the harmonious mixture of
light and ſhade, and their different effects in the
morning and the evening as I travelled; you
may then form fome idea of the ſcenes which
engaged my attention, and which ſeemed to
change as I paſſed, as on an enchanted theatre;
for the proſpect of mountains being almoſt per-
pendicular to the horizon, ſtrikes the eye at the
ſame
114
E LO IS A.
ſame inſtant, and more powerfully than that of
a plain, where the objects are ſeen obliquely and
half concealed behind each each other.
To this pleaſing variety of ſcenes I attributed
the ſerenity of my mind during my firſt day's
journey. I wondered to find that inanimate
beings ſhould over-rule our moſt violent paffions,
and deſpiſed the impotence of philoſophy for hav-
ing leſs power over the ſoul than a ſucceſſion of
lifeleſs objects. But, finding that
my tranquillity
continued during the night, and even increaſed
with the following day, I began to believe it
flowed from ſome other ſource, which I had not
yet diſcovered. That day I reached the lower
mountains, and, paſſing over their rugged tops,
at laſt aſcended the higheſt ſummit I could
poſſibly attain. Having walked a while in the
clouds I came to a place of greater ſerenity,
whence one may peacefully obſerve the thunder
and the ſtorm gathering below--Ah! too flatter-
ing picture of human wiſdom, of which the ori-
ginal never exiſted, except in thoſe ſublime re-
gions whence the emblem is taken.
Here it was that I plainly diſcovered, in the
purity of the air, the true cauſe of that return-
ing tranquillity of ſoul, to which I had been
ſo long a ſtranger. This impreſſion is general,
though not univerſally obſerved. Upon the tops
of mountains, the air being ſubtle and pure, we
reſpire with greater freedom, our bodies are more
active, our minds more ſerene, our pleaſures leſs
ardeni, and our paſſions much more moderate.
Our
E LO I SA.
115
Our meditations acquire a degree of ſublimity
from the grandeur of the objects around us. It
ſeems as if, being lifted above all human ſo-
ciety, we had left every low, terreſtrial ſenti-
ment behind; and that as we approach the æthe-
real regions the ſoul imbibes ſomething of their
eternal purity. One is grave without being me-
lancholy, peaceful but not indolent, penfive yet
contented: our deſires loſe their painful vio.
lence, and leave only a gentle emotion in our
hearts. Thus the paſſions which in the lower
world are man's greateſt torment, in happier
climates contribute to his felicity. I doubt much
whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the
mind, could hold out againſt ſuch a ſituation;
and I am ſurpriſed that a bath of the reviving and
wholeſome air of the mountains is not frequently
preſcribed both by phyſick and morality.
Quí non palazzi, non teatro o loggia,
Ma'n lor vece un' abete, un faggio, un pina
Trà l'erba verde e'l bel monte vicino
Levan di terra al Ciel noſtr' intelletto.
Nor palace, theatre, nor proud exchange,
Here lift their heads; but fir-trees, beech, and pine,
O'er verdant valleys, and on pleaſant hills,
Lift up the thoughtful mind from earth to heaven:
Imagine to yourſelf all theſe united impref-
fions; the amazing variety, magnitude, and
beauty of a thouſand ftupendous objects; the
pleaſure of gazing at an entire new ſcene, ſtrange
birds, unknown plants, another nature, and a
new world. To theſe even the ſubtilty of the
air
116
E LO I SA.

air is advantageous; it enlivens the natural ce-
lours of objects, renders them more diſtinct, and
brings them as it were nearer to the eye. In
ſhort, there is a kind of fupernatural beauty in
thefe mountainous proſpects which charms
the ſenſes of the mind both into a forgetfulneſs of
one's ſelf and of every thing in the world.
I could have ſpent the whole time in contem-
plating theſe magnificent landſcapes, if I had not
found ſtill greater pleaſure in the converſation of
the inhabitants. In my obſervations you will
find a ſlight fketch of their manners, their fim-
plicity, their equality of ſoul, and of that
peacefulneſs of mind which renders them happy
by an exemption from pain, rather than by the
enjoyment of pleaſure. But what I was unable
to deſcribe, and which is almoſt impoſſible to be
conceived, is their diſintereſted humanity and
hoſpitable zeal to oblige every ſtranger whom
chance or curioſity brings to viſit them. This I
myſelf continually experienced, I who was en-
tirely unknown, and who was conducted from
place to place only by a common guide, When,
in the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the
foot of a mountain, each of the inhabitants was
fo
eager to have me lodge at his houſe that I
was always embarraſſed which to accept; and he
who obtained the preference ſeemed ſo well
pleaſed that, at firſt, I ſuppoſed his joy to ariſe
from a lucrative proſpect; but I was amazed,
after having uſed the houſe like an inn, to find
my hoſt not only refuſe to accept the leaſt gra-
tuity
E LO IS A.
117
tuity, but offended that it was offered. I found
it univerſally the ſame. So that it was true hof-
pitality, which, from its unuſual ardour, I had
miſtaken for avarice. So perfectly diſintereſted
are theſe people, that during eight days it was
not in my power to leave one dollar among
them. In ſhort, how is it poſſible to ſpend
money in a country where the landlord will not
be paid for his proviſions, nor the ſervant for his
trouble, and where there are no beggars to be
found? Nevertheleſs, money is by no means
abundant in the Upper Valais, and for that very
reaſon the inhabitants are not in want; for the
neceſſaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is ſent
out of the country; they are not luxurious at home,
nor is the peaſant leſs laborious. If ever they
have more money they will grow poor, and of this
they are ſo ſenſible, that they tread upon mines of
gold, which they are determined never to open.
I was at firſt greatly ſurpriſed at the difference
between the cuſtoms and manners of theſe peo-
ple and thoſe of the Lower Valais; for in the
road through that part of the country to Italy
travellers pay dearly enough for their paſſage.
An inhabitant of the place explained the myſtery.
“ The ſtrangers (ſays he) who paſs through the
Lower Valais are chiefly merchants, or people
who travel in purſuit of gain; it is but juſt that
they ſhould leave us a part of their profit, and
that we ſhould treat them as they treat others;
but here travellers meet with a different re-
.ception, becauſe we are aſſured their journey
mutt
118
E LO I SA.
muſt have a diſintereſted motive: they viſit us
out of friendſhip, and therefore we receive them
as our friends. But, indeed, our hoſpitality is not
very expenſive; we have but few viſitors.”-
“ No wonder (I replied) that mankind ſhould
avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and
not to acquire wealth, and excite envy. Happy,
deſervedly happy, mortals! I am pleaſed to
think that one muſt certainly reſemble you in
ſome degree, in order to approve your manners
and taſte your fimplicity.”
What I found particularly agreeable whilft I
continued among them was the natural eaſe and
freedom of their behaviour. They went about
their buſineſs in the houſe as if I had not been
there; and it was in my power to act as if
I were the ſole inhabitant. They are entirely un-
acquainted with the impertinent vanity of doing
the honours of the houſe, as if to remind the
ſtranger of his dependence. When I ſaid no-
thing, they concluded I was ſatisfied to live in
their manner; but the leaſt hint was ſufficient to
make them comply with mine, without any re-
pugnance or aſtoniſhment.
The only com-
pliment which they made me, when they heard
that I was a Swiſs, was, that they looked upon
me as a brother, and I ought therefore to think
myſelf at home. After this, they took but little
notice of me, not fuppoſing that I could doubt
the fincerity of their offers, or refufe to accept
them whenever they could be uſeful. The ſame
fimplicity ſubliſts among themſelves : when the
children

E LO I SA.
119
.
children are once arrived at maturity, all diſtinc-
tion between them and their parents ſeems to
have ceaſed; their domeſticks are ſeated at the
ſame table with their maſter; the ſame liberty
reigns in the cottage as in the republick, and each
family is an epitome of the ſtate.
They never deprived me of my liberty, except
when at table: indeed, it was always in my power
to avoid the repaſt; but being once ſeated I was
obliged to fit late, and drink much. 66 What!
(ſaid they) a Swiſs and not drink!” For my own
part, I confeſs I am no enemy to good wine, and
have no diſike to a chearful glaſs; but I diſlike
compulfion. I have obſerved that deceitful men
are generally fober, and that peculiar reſerve at
table frequently indicates a duplicity of fonl.
A guileleſs heart is not afraid of the unguarded
eloquence, and affectionate folly which com-
monly precede drunkenneſs; but we ought always
to avoid exceſs. Yet even that was ſometimes
impoflible among theſe hearty Valafians, their
wine being ſtrong, and water abſolutely excluded.
Who could act the philoſopher here, or be of-
fended with ſuch honeſt people? In ſhort, I
drank to ſhow my gratitude, and ſince they re-
fuſed to take my money, I made them a compli-
ment of my reaſon.
They have another cuſtom, not leſs embar-
raffing, which is practiſed even in the houſes
of the magiſtrates themſelves : I mean that of
their wives and daughters ſtanding behind one's
chair, and waiting at table like ſo many ſervants.
This


5
I 20
E LOI-SA.
This would be inſupportable to the gallantry of
a Frenchman, eſpecially as the women of this
country are in general ſo extremely handſome,
that one can hardly bear to be thus attended by
the maid. You may certainly believe them
beautiful, ſince they appeared fo to me; for my
eyes have been accuſtomed to Eloiſa, and are
therefore extremely difficult to pleaſe.
As for me, who pay more regard to the man-
ners of the people with whom I refide, than to
any rules of politeneſs, I received their ſervices
in ſilence, and with a degree of gravity equal to
that of Don Quixote when he was with the
Duchefs. I could not, however, help ſmiling
now and then at the contraſt between the rough
old grey beards at the table, and the charming
complexion of the fair nymphs in waiting, in
whom a ſingle word would excite a bluſh, which
rendered their beauty more glowing and confpi-
Not that I could admire the enormous
compaſs of their necks, which reſemble in
their dazzling whiteneſs only that perfect model,
which always formed in my imagination (for
though veiled, I have ſometimes ſtolen a glance)
that celebrated marble which is ſuppoſed to ex-
cel in delicate proportion the moſt perfect work
of nature.
Be not ſurpriſed to find me ſo knowing in
myſteries which you ſo carefully conceal: this
hath happened in ſpite of all your caution; for
one ſenſe inſtructs another, and, notwithſtanding
the moſt jealous vigilance, there will always

cuous.

remain
E L O I S A.
remain ſome friendly interſtice or other, through
which the fight performs the office of the touch.
The curious eye buſily inſinuates itſelf with im-
punity under the flowers of a noſegay, wanders
beneath the ſpreading gauſe, and conveys that
elaſtick reſiſtance to the hand which it dares not
experience.
Parte appar delle mamme acerbe e crude,
Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vefia ;
Invida, maſ' agli occhi il varco chiude,
L'amoroſo penſier gia non arreſta.
In vain lies half-conceal'd the tender breaſt,
Or gently heaves beneath th' invidious veſt;
Through th' envious covering darts the lover's ſight,
And riots on the ſcene of fond delight.
I am alſo not quite ſatisfied with the dreſs of
the Valaiſian ladies : their gowns are raiſed fo
very high behind, that they all appear round-
ſhouldered ; yet this, together with their little
black coifs, and other peculiarities of their dreſs,
has a fingular effect, and wants neither ſimpli-
city nor elegance. I ſhall bring you one of
their complete ſuits, which I dare ſay will fit
you; it was made to the fineſt ſhape in the whole
country.
But, whilft I travelled with delight theſe re-
gions, which are ſo little known,and fo deſerving
of admiration, where was my Eloiſa? Was
the baniſhed my memory? --Forget my Eloiſa!
Forget my own ſoul! Is it poſſible for me to be
one moment of my life alone, who exiſt only
through her ? Q, no! our ſouls are inſeparable,
VOL. I.
F
and,




122
E L O IS A.
you,
and, by inſtinct, change their ſituation toge-
ther, according to the prevailing ſtate of mind.
When I am in forrow it takes refuge with
your's, and ſeeks confolation in the place where
you are; as was the caſe the day I left
When I am happy, being incapable of enjoy-
ment alone, they both attend upon me, and our
pleaſure becomes mutual: thus it was during
my whole excurſion. I did not take one ſtep
without you, nor admire a fingle proſpect with-
out eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloiſa. The
ſame tree ſpread its ſhadow over us both,
and we conſtantly reclined againft the ſame
flowery bank.
Sometimes, as we ſat, I gazed
with you at the wonderful ſcene before us, and
ſometimes on my knees turned with rapture to
an object more worthy the contemplation of
human ſenſibility. If I came to a difficult paſs,
I ſaw you ſkip over it with the activity of the
bounding dọe. When a torrent happened to
croſs our path, I preſumed to preſs you in my
arms, walked ſlowly through the water, and was
always ſorry when I reached the oppoſite bank.
Every thing in that peaceful ſolitude brought
you to my imagination; the pleaſing awefulneſs
of nature, the invariable ſerenity of the air, the
grateful fimplicity of the people, their conſtant
and natural prudence, the unaffected modeſty
and innocence of the ſex; in ſhort, every ob-
ject that gave pleaſure to the eye or to the heart
ſeemed inſeparably connected with the idea of
Eloiſa.




Divine
E L O IS A.
123
Divine maid! have I often tenderly exclaimed,
o that we might ſpend our days in theſe un-
frequented mountains, unenvyed and unknown!
Why can I not here collect my whole ſoul into
thee alone, and become, in turn, the univerſe
to Eloiſa! Thy charms would then receive the
homage they deſerve; then would our hearts
taſte without interruption the delicious fruit of
the ſoft paſſion with which they are filled: the
years of our long Elyſium would paſs away un-
told, and when the frigid hand of age ſhould
have calmed our firſt tranſports, the conſtant
habit of thinking and acting from the ſame prin-
ciple would beget a laſting friendſhip no lefs
tender than our love, whoſe vacant place ſhould
be filled by the kindred ſentiments which grew
and were nouriſhed with it in our youth. Like
this happy people, we would practice every duty
of humanity, we would unite in acts of benevo-
lence, and at laft die with the ſatisfaction of not
having lived in vain. . vtibili
vizibile
13
Hark!--it is the poſt. I will cloſe my
letter, and fly to receive another from Eloiſa.
How my heart beats? Why was I rouſed
from my reverie? I was happy at leaſt in
idea. Heaven only knows what I am to be in
reality, svigagi dst od ni loots
er al' wol Tədistus-150blini

tom
suomen
e as belaid to your
loro totulot
L E T T E R
124
E L O IS A.
L E T T E R XXIV.
TO ELOISA.
I
Sit down to give you an immediate anſwer to
that article of your letter concerning the
stipend. Thank God, it requires no reflexion.
My ſentiments, my Eloiſa, on this ſubject are
theſe:
In what is called honour there is a material
diſtinction between that which is founded on the
opinion of the world, and that which is derived
from ſelf. efteen. The firſt is nothing but the
loud voice of fooliſh prejudice, which has no
more ſtability than the wind; but the baſis of
the latter is fixed in the eternal truths of mora-
lity. The honour of the world may be of ad-
vantage with regard to fortune ; but, as it cannot
reach the ſoul, it has no influence on real hap-
pineſs. True honour, on the contrary, is the
very eſſence of felicity; for it is that alone in-
ſpires the permanent interiour ſatisfaction which
conſtitutes the happineſs of a rational being.
Let us, my Eloiſa, apply thoſe principles to your
queſtion, and it will be ſoon refolved.
To become an inſtructor of philoſophy, and
like the fool in the fable receive money for
teaching wiſdom, will appear rather low in the
eyes
of the world, and, I own, has ſomething
in it ridiculous enough. Yet, as no man can
fubfift merely of himſelf, and as there can be
nothing wrong in eating the fruit of one's la.
bour,


E LO I SA.
125
bour, we will regard this opinion of mankind
as a piece of fooliſh prejudice, to which it would
be madneſs to facrifice our happineſs. I know
you will not eſteem me the leſs on this account;
nor ſhall I deſerve more pity for living upon the
talents I have cultivated.
But, my Eloiſa, there are other things to be
conſidered. Let us leave the multitude, and
look a little into ourſelves. What ſhall I in
reality be to your father, in receiving from him
a falary for inſtructing his daughter? Am I not
from that moment a mercenary, a hireling, a
fervant? And do not I tacitly pledge my faith
for his ſecurity, like the meaneſt of his dome-
ſticks? Now, what has a father to lofe of greater
value than his only daughter, even though the
were not an Eloifa? and what ſhould the man do
who had thus pledged his faith, and ſold his fer-
vice? -Ought he to ftifle the flame within his
breaſt? Ah ! Eloiſa, that you know to be im-
poftible: or should he rather indulge his paſſion,
and wound, in the moſt fenfible part, the man
who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In
this caſe I behold a perfidious teacher, trampling
under foot one of the moſt facred bonds of fo-
ciety*, a feducer, a domeftick traitor, whom
the
F 3
* Unhappy youth! not to perceive, that to ſuffer him-
ſelf to be paid in gratitude what he refuſed in money
was infinitely more criminal. Under the maſk of in.
ftruction he corrupted her heart; inſtead of nourishment
he gives her poiſon, and is thanked by a deluded mother
for the ruin of her child. Nevertheleſs, one may perceive
in
1 26
E LO IS A.
as
the law hath juftly condemned to die, I hope
Eloiſa underſtands me--I do not fear death, but
the ignominy of deſerving it, and my own con-
tempt.
When the letters of your name's-fake and
Abelard fell into your hands, you remember
my opinion of the conduct of that prieſt. I
always pitied Eloiſa : ſhe had a heart made for
love : but Abelard ſeemed to deſerve his fate,
he was a ſtranger both to love and virtue.
Ought I then to follow his example? What
wretch dares preach that virtue which he will
not practiſe! Whoſoever fuffers himſelf to be
thus blinded by his paſſions will ſoon find him-
ſelf puniſhed in a loathing for thoſe very ſenſa-
tions to which he ſacrificed his honour. There
can be no pleaſure in any enjoyment which the
heart cannot approve, and which tends to fink
in our eſtimation the object of our love. Ab-
ſtract the idea of perfection, and our enthuſiaſm
vaniſhes: take away our eſteem, and love is at
an end. How is it poſſible for a woman to ho-
nour a man who diſhonours himſelf? and how
can he adore the perſon who was weak enough
to abandon herſelf to a vile feducer! Mutual
contempt, therefore, is the confequence; their
very paſſions will grow burthenfome, and they
will

in him a fincere love for virtue; but it is too ſoon diſli.
pated by his paffions; that with all his fine preaching,
unleſs his youth be admitted as an excuſe, he is no better
than a wicked fellow. The two lovers, however, deferve
fome compaffion; the mother is chiefly in fault.

E L O IS A.
127
will have loſt their honour without finding hap
pineſs.
But how different, my Eloiſa, is it with two
lovers of the ſame age, influenced by the ſame
paſſion, united by the ſame bonds, under no par-
ticular engagements, and both in poſſeſſion of
their original liberty. The moſt ſevere laws can
infiiet no other puniſhment than the natural
confequences of their paſſion: their ſole obliga-
tion is to love eternally; and if there be in the
world fome unhappy climate, where men's au-
thority dares to break ſuch ſacred bonds, they
are ſurely puniſhed by the crimes that muſt in-
evitably enfue.
Theſe, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloiſa,
are my reaſons: they are indeed but a frigid
commentary on thoſe which you urged with fo
much ſpirit and energy in one of your letters ;
but they are ſufficient to ſhow you how entirely
I am of your opinion. You remember that I
did not perfiſt in refuſing your offer, and that,
notwithſtanding the firſt ſcruples of prejudice,
being convinced that it was not inconſiſtent with
my honour, I conſented to open the box. But,
in the preſent cafe, my duty, my reaſon, my
love, all ſpeak too plainly to be miſunderſtood.
If I muſt chooſe between my honour and Eloiſa,
my heart is prepared to reſign her-I love her
too well to purchaſe her at the price of my ho-
nouri



F4
L E T TER
E LO IS A.
L E T T E R XXV.
FROM ELOIS A.

YOU
OU will eaſily believe, my dear friend,
how extremely I was entertained with the
agreeable account of your late tour. The ele-
gance of the detail itſelf would have engaged
my eſteem, even though its authour had been
wholly a ſtranger; but its coming from you
was a circumſtance of additional recommen-
dation. I could, however, find in my heart
to chide
you for a certain part of it, which you
will eaſily gueſs, though I could ſcarce refrain
from laughing at the ridiculous fineſſe you made
uſe of to ſhelter yourſelf under Taffo. Have
you never really perceived the wide difference
that ſhould be made between a narration intended
for the view of the public, and that little ſketch
of particulars which is ſolely to be referred to
the inſpection of your miſtreſs. Or is love,
with all its fears, doubts, jealoufies, and ſcru-
ples, to have no more regard paid to it than the
mere decencies of good-breeding are intitled to ?
Could you be at a moment's loſs to conceive
that the dry preciſeneſs of an authour muſt be
diſpleaſing, where the paſſionate ſentiments of
inſpiring tenderneſs were expected? And could
you deliberately reſolve to diſappoint my expec-
tations ? But I fear I have already ſaid too much
on a ſubject which perhaps had better been en-
tirely paſſed over. Beſides, the contents of
your laſt letter have to cloſely engaged my
thoughts

E L O I SA.
thoughts, that I have had no leiſure to attend
to the particulars of the former. Leaving then,
my dear friend, the Valais to fome future op-
portunity, let us now fix our attention on what
more immediately concerns ourſelves we ſhall
find fufficient matter for employment,
I very clearly foreſaw what your ſentiments
would be, and indeed the time we have known
each other had been ſpent to little purpoſe if
our conjectures were ſtill vague and uncertain.
If virtue ever ſhould forſake us, be aſſured it
will not, cannot, be in thoſe inſtances, which
require reſolution and refignation*. When the
affault is violent, the firft ſtep to be taken is
reſiſtance; and we ſhall ever triumph, Thope,
fo long as we are forewarned of our danger. A
ſtate of careleſs fecurity is the moſt to be dread-
ed, and we may be taken by fap ere we perceive
that the citadel is attacked. The moſt fatal
circumſtance of all, is the continuance of mif-
fortunes; their very duration makes them dan-
gerous to a mind that might bear up againſt 'the
Tharpeſt tryals and moſt vigorous fudden onſets ;
it may be worn out by the tedious preſſure of
inferior ſufferings, and give way to the length
of thoſe afflictions which have quite exhauſted
its forbearance. This ſtruggle, my
This ſtruggle, my dear friend,
falls to our lot. We are not called upon to fig-
naliſe ourſelves by deeds of heroiſm, or renowned
F 5
exploits;
* The ſequel will but too well inform the reader, that
this affertion of Eloiſa's was extremely ill groundede


130
E LO IS A.
exploits; but we are bound to the more painful
taſk of ſupporting an indefatigable reſiſtance, and
enduring misfortunes without the leaſt relaxation.
I foreſaw. but too well the melancholy event.
Our happineſs is paſſed away like a morning
cloud, and our tryals are beginning without the:
leaſt proſpect of any alteration for the better.
Every circumſtance is to me an aggravation of
my diſtreſs, and what at other times would have
pafled unheeded and unobſerved, now ſerves but
too plainly to increaſe my diſmay: my body
ſympathiſes with my mind in this diſtreſſed fitu-
ation; the one is as fpiritleſs and languid as the
other is alarmed and apprehenſive. Involuntary
tears are ever ſtealing down my cheeks, with-
out my being ſenſible of any immediate cauſe of
forrow. I do not indeed foreſee any very diſtreſs-
ful events, but I perceive, alas, too well, my
fondeſt hopes blaſted, my moſt fanguine expec-
tations diſappointed, and what good purpoſe can:
it ſerve to water the leaves, when the plant is
decayed and withered at the root.
I feel myſelf unable to ſupport your abſence.
I feel, my dear friend, that I can never live
without you, and this is a freſh ſubject to me of
continual apprehenſions. How often do I tra-
verſe the ſcenes which were once the witneſſes
of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no
where to be found. I conſtantly expect you
at your uſual time, but the time comes and
goes without your return. Every object of my
ſenſes preſents a new monument, and every
ob-
ject,



Ε Ι ο Ι S Α.
131
ject, alas ! reminds me that I have loſt you,
Whatever your ſufferings may be in other re-
ſpects, you are exempted, however, from this
aggravation. Your heart alone is ſufficient to
remind you of my unhappy abſence. Did you
but know what endleſs pangs theſe fruitleſs
expectations, theſe impatient longings perpetu-
ally occaſion, how they embitter and increaſe
the torments I already feel, you would without
heſitation prefer your condition to mine.
If, indeed, I might give vent to my ſad tale,
and truſt the tender recital of my numberleſs
woes to the kind boſom of a faithful friend, I
might be relieved in ſome degree of my misfor-
But even this relief is denied me, except
when I find opportunity to pour a few tender
fighs into the compaſionate bofom of my couſin:
but in general I am conſtrained to ſpeak a lan-
guage quite foreign to my heart, and to aſſume
an air of thoughtleſs gaiety, when I am ready
to fink into the grave.

tunes.

Sentirſi, o Dei, morir,
E non poter mai dir,
Morir mi Sento!
Ye Gods! how dreadful is the pain,
To fuffer and muſt not complain.
A further circumſtance of my diſtreſs, if any
thing more diſtreſsful can yet'be added, is, that
my diſorder is continually increaſing. I have of
late thought ſo gloomily, that I ſeldom now
think otherwiſe ; and the more anxiety I feel at
F 6
the

132
E LO I SA.
the remembrance of our paſt pleaſures, the more
eagerly do I indulge myſelf in the painful re-
collection. Tell me, my dear, dear friend, if
you can tell me by experience, how nearly allied
is love to this tender forrow, and if diſquiet and
uneafineſs itſelf be not the cement of the warm-
eft affections?
I have a thou fand other things to ſay, but
firft I would fain know, exactly, where you are.
Beſides, this train of thinking has awakened my
paffion, and indeed rendered me unfit for writing
any more. Adieu, my dear friend, and though
I am obliged to lay down my pen, be aſſured I
can never think of parting with you.
ASI
BILL E T.
S this comes to your hands by a water-
man, an entire ſtranger to me, I fhall
only ſay at preſent that I have taken up my
quarters at Meillerie, on the oppoſite fhore.
I ſhall now have an opportunity of ſeeing,
at leaſt, the dear place which I dare not ap-
proach.
LETTER XXVI.

TO ELOISA.
HAT a wonderful alteration has a
ſhort ſpace of time produced in my
affairs ! The thoughts of meeting, delightful
as they were, are now too much allayed with
dir.
E L O IS A.
133
difquieting apprehenſions. What fhould have
been the object of my hopes is now, alas ! be-
come the ſubject of my fears; and the very fpi-
rit of diſcernment, which on moſt occaſions is
ſo uſeful now ſerves but to diſmay, to diſquiet,
and torment me. Ah, Eloiſa! too much fenfi-
bility, too much tenderneſs, proves the bittereſt
curſe inſtead of the choiceſt bleſſing: vexation
and diſappointment are its certain conſequences.
The temperature of the air, the change of the
ſeaſons, the brilliancy of the ſun; and thickneſs
of the fogs, are ſo many moving ſprings to the
unhappy poffeffor, and he becomes the wanton
ſport of their arbitration : his thoughts, his
ſatisfaction, his happineſs, depend on the
blowing of the winds, and the different points
of eaſt and weſt can ſadden or enliven his
expectations : ſwayed as he is by prejudices,
and diſtracted by paſſions, the ſentiments of his
heart find continual oppofition from the axioms
of his head. Should he perchance ſquare his
conduct to the undeviable rule of right, and ſet
up truth for his ſtandard, inſtead of profit and
convenience, he is ſure to fall a martyr to the
maxims of his integrity; the world will join
in the ery, and hunt him down as a common ene-
my. But fuppofing this not the caſe, honeſty and
uprightneſs, though exempted from perſecution,
are neither of them the channels of honour, nor
the road to riches : poverty and want are their
infeparable attendants, and man, by adhering
to the one, neceſſarily attaches himſelf to the
inheritance


134
E LO IS A.
inheritance of the other; and by this means he
becomes his own tormenter. He will fearch
for ſupreme happineſs, without taking into the
account the infirmities of his nature. Thus his
affections and his reaſon will be engaged in a
perpetual warfare, and unbounded ideas and
deſires muſt pave the way for endleſs diſappoint-
ments.
This ſituation, however diſmal, is neverthe-
leſs the true one, in which the hard fate of my
worldly affairs, counteracted by the ingenuous
and liberal turn of my thoughts, have involved
me, and which is aggravated and increaſed by
your father's
father's contempt and
your own milder fen-
timents, which are at once both the delight and
diſquiet of my life. Had it not been for thee,
thou fatal beauty, I could never have expe-
rienced the inſupportable contraſt between the
greatneſs of my ſoul, and the low eſtate of my
fortune. I ſhould have lived quietly, and died
contented, in a ſituation that would have been
even below notice. But to ſee
But to ſee you without
being able to poffefs you-to adore you,
without
raiſing myſelf from my obſcurity- to live in the
ſame place, and yet be ſeparated from each other,
is a ſtruggle, my deareſt Eloiſa, to which I am
utterly unequal. I can neither renounce you,
nor ſurmount the cruelty of my deſtiny--I can
neither ſubdue my deſires, nor better my for-


tune.
But, as if this ſituation itſelf were not ſuffi-
ciently tormenting, the horrours of it are increaſed
by
E LO IS A.
135
by the gloomy ſucceſſion of ideas ever preſent to
my imagination. Perhaps, too, this is heightened
by the nature of the place I live in-- it is dark-
it is dreadful : but then it fuits the habit of my
ſoul; and a more pleaſant proſpect of nature
would reflect little comfort on the dreary view
within me.
A ridge of barren rocks ſurround
the coaſt, and my dwelling is ſtill made more
diſmal by the uncomfortable proſpects of win-
ter. And yet, Eloiſa, I am ſenſible enough that
if I were once forced to abandon you, I ſhould
ſtand in need of no other abode, no other ſeaſon.
While my mind is diſtracted with ſuch con-
tinual agitations, my body too is moving as it
were in ſympathy with thoſe emotions. I run
to and fro', climb the rocks, explore my whole
diſtrict, and find every thing as horrible with,
out, as I experience it within. There is no
longer any verdure to be ſeen, the graſs is yel-
low and withered, the trees are ſtripped of their
foliage, and the north-eaſt blaft heaps fuow and
ice around me. In ſhort, the whole face of
nature appears as decayed to my outward ſenſes,
as I myſelf from within am dead to hope and
joy.
Amidſt this rocky coaſt I have found out a
folitary cleft, from whence I have a diſtinct view
of the dear place you inhabit. You may eaſily
imagine how I have feaſted on this diſcovery,
and refreſhed my fight with ſo delightful a pro-
ſpect. I ſpent a whole day in endeavouring to
difcern the very houſe, but the diſtance, alas,
5
is


ៗ
136
E L O IS A.
is too great for my efforts; and imagination was
forced to fupply what my wearied fight was
unable to difcover. I immediately ran to the
curate's, and borrowed his telefcope, which pre-
fented to my view, or at leaſt to my thoughts,
the exact ſpot I defired. My whole time has
been taken up ever fince in contemplating thoſe
walls that encloſe the only ſource of my com-
fort, the only object of my wiſhes: notwith-
ſtanding the inclement ſeverity of the ſeaſon, I
continue thus employed from day-break until
evening. A fire, made of leaves and a few dry
ſticks, defends me in ſome meaſure from the in-
tenfeneſs of the cold. This place, wild and un-
cultivated as it is, is fo ſuited to my taſte, that I
am now writing to you in it, on a ſummit which
the ice has ſeparated from the rock.
Here, my deareſt Eloiſa, your unhappy lover
is enjoying the laſt pleaſure that perhaps he may
ever reliſh on this fide the grave. Here, in ſpite
of every obſtacle, he can penetrate into your
He is even dazzled with your
beauty, and the tenderneſs of your looks re-
animates his drooping foul; nay, he can wiſh for
thoſe raptures which he experienced with you
in the grove. Alas! it is all a dream, the idle
phantom of a projecting mind. Pleafing as it is,
it vaniſhes like a vifion, and I am foon forced
to awake from ſo agreeable a delirium ; and
yet even then I have full employment for my
thoughts. I adniire and revere the purity of
your fentiments, the innocence of your life: 1
trace
very chamber.
E LO O .
137
I SAA.
trace out in my mind the method of your daily
conduct, by comparing it with what I formerly
well knew in happier days, and under more en-
dearing circumſtances: I find you ever atten-
tive to engagements which heighten your cha-
racter: need I add that ſuch a view moft ino-
vingly affects me.
In the morning I ſay to my-
ſelf, ſhe is juſt now awaking from calm and
gentle numbers, as freſh as the early dew, and
as compoſed as the moſt ſpotleſs innocence, and
is dedicating to her Creator a day which ſhe
determines ſhall not be loft to virtue. She is
now going to her mother, her tender heart all
fuſceptible of the foft ties of filial duty: ſhe is
either relieving her parents from the burthen of
domeſtick cares, ſoothing their aged forrows,
pitying their infirmities, or excuſing thoſe in-
diſcretions in others which ſhe knows not how
to allow in herſelf. At another time, ſhe is em-
ploying herſelf in works of genius or of uſe,
foring her mind with valuable knowledge, or
reconciling the elegancies of life to its more
fober occupations. Sometimes I fee a neat and
ſtudied ſimplicity ſet off thoſe charms which need
no fuch recommendations; and at others ſhe is
conſulting her holy paſtor on the circumſtances
of indigent merit. Here ſhe is aiding, com-
forting, relieving the orphan or the widow;
there ſhe is the entertainment of the whole circle
of her friends, by her prudent and ſenſible con-
verfation. Now ſhe is tempering the gaiety of
youth with wiſdom and diſcretion: and ſome
few
138
E LO I S A.
few moments (forgive me the preſumption) you
beſtow on my hapleſs love. I fee you
melted
into tears at the peruſal of my letters, and can
perceive your devoted lover is the ſubject of the
lines you are penning, and of the paſſionate
diſcourf: between you and your coufin.--Oh,
Eloiſa, fhall we never be united ?-Shall we
never ſpend our days together? --Can we, Eloiſa!
can we part for ever? No, far be that thought
from my ſoul. I ſtart into frenzy at the very
idea, and my diſtempered mind hurries me
from rock to rock. Involuntary fighs and
groans betray my inward diſorder: I roar out
like a lioneſs robbed of her young. I can do
every thing but loſe you; there is nothing-no,
nothing, I would not attempt for you, at the
riſk of my life. .
I had written thus far, and was waiting an op-
portunity to convey it, when your laſt came to
my hands from Sion. The melancholy air it
breathes has lulled my griefs to reít. Now,
now, am I convinced of what you obſerved long
ago, concerning that wonderful ſympathy bem
tween lovers. Your forrow is of the calmer,
mine of the more paſſionate kind; yet, though
the affection of the mind be the ſame, it takes
its colour in each from the different channels
through which it runs; and, indeed, it is but na.
tural, that the greateſt misfortunes ſhould pro-
duce the moſt difquieting anxieties; but why do
I talk of misfortunes? They would be abſolute-
ly inſupportable. No, be aſſured, my Eloiſa,
that
1
E LO IS A.
139

that the irreſiſtible decree of heaven has deſigned
us for each other. This is the firſt great law we
are to obey, and it is the great buſineſs of life
to calm, footh, and ſweeten it while we are here.
I ſee, and lament it too, that your deſigns are
too vague and inconcluſive for execution. You
ſeem willing to conquer inſurmountable diffi-
culties, while at the ſame time you are neglecting
the only feaſible methods. An enthufiaftick idea
of honour has ſupplanted your reaſon, and your
virtue is become little better than an empty de-
lirium.
ito
If, indeed, it were poffible for you
to remain
always as young and beautiful as you are at pre-
ſent, my only with, my only prayer to heaven
would be, to know of your continual happineſs,
to ſee you once every year, only once, and then
ſpend the reſt of my time in viewing your man-
fion from afar, and in adoring you among the
rocks. But, behold, alas, the inconceivable
ſwiftneſs of that fate, which is never at reſt. It
is conſtantly purſuing, time flies haſtily, the op-
portunity is irretrievable, and your beauty--even
your beauty, is circumſcribed by very narrow
Jimits of exiſtence: it muſt fome time or
other decay and wither away, like a flower that
fades before it is gathered. In the mean time,
I am conſuming my health, youth, ſtrength, in
continual forrow, and waſte away my years in
complaining. Think! oh think, Eloiſa! that
we have already loſt fome time; think too that
it will never return, and that the caſe will be the
fame

140
E L O IS A.
fame with the years that are to come, if we
ſuffer them to paſs by neglected and unimproved.
O fond, miſtaken fair! you are laying plans for
a futurity at which you may never arrive, and
neglecting the preſent moments, which can never
be retrieved. You are ſo anxious and intent
on that uncertain hereafter, that you forget that
in the mean while our hearts melt away
like
ſnow before the ſun.--Awake, awake, my dear-
eſt Eloiſa, from ſo fatal a delufion! Leave all
your concerted ſchemes, the wanton ſallies of a
fruitful fancy, and determine to be happy. Come,
my only hope, my only joy! to thy fond ex-
peeting lover's arms; come, and reunite the hi-
therto divided portions of our exiſtence. Come,
and, before heaven, let us folemnly fwear to live
and die for each other. You have no need, I
am fure, of any encouragement, any exhorta-
tions, to bear up againſt the fear of want. Though
poor, provided we are happy, what a treaſure
will be in our poffeffion! But let us not ſo inſult
either the dignity or the humanity of the ſpecies,
as to ſuppoſe that this vaſt world cannot furniſh
an aſylum for two unfortunate lovers. But we
need not defpair while I have health and ſtrength;
the bread earned by the ſweat of my brow will
be more reliſhing to you than the moſt coſtly ban-
quet which luxury could prepare. And, indeed,
can any repaſt, provided and ſeaſoned by love,
be infipid? Oh my angel, if our happineſs
were ſure to laſt 'us but one day, could you cruelly
reſolve to quit this life without taſting it.
One


E LO IS A.
141
One word more, and I have done. You
know, Eloiſa, the uſe which was formerly made
of the rock of Leucatia-it was the laſt fad re.
fuge of diſappointed lovers. The place I am
now in, and my own diſtreſſed ſituation, bear but
too cloſe a reſemblance-The rock is craggy--
the water deep--and I am in deſpair!
LETTER XXVII.
FROM CLARA.
I"
is
Have been lately fo diſtracted with care and
grief, that is with much difficulty I have
been able to ſummon ſufficient ſtrength for writ-
ing. Your misfortunes and mine are now at
their utmoſt criſis. In ſhort, the lovely Eloiſa
very dangerouſly ill, and, ere this can reach
you, may perhaps be no more. The mortifica-
tion ſhe underwent in parting with you firſt
brought on her diſorder, which was conſiderably
increaſed by ſome very intereſting diſcourſe the
has fince had with her father. This has been
ſtill heightened by circumſtances of additional
aggravation; and, as if all this were too little,
your laſt letter came in aid, and completed
what, alas ! was already ſcarce ſupportable. The
peruſal of it affected her ſo ſenſibly, that, after a
whole night of violent agitations and cruel
ſtruggles, ſhe was ſeiſed with a high fever, which
has increaſed to ſuch a degree, that ſhe is now
delirious. Even in this fituation ſhe is perpetu-
ally


142
E LO I SA.
ally calling for you, and ſpeaks of you with ſuch
emotions as plainly point out that you alone
are the object of her more ſober thoughts. Her
father is kept out of the way as much as poſible,
which is no inconſiderable proof that my aunt
ſuſpects the truth. She has even aſked me, with
fome anxiety, when you intended to return?
So entirely does her concern for her daughter
outweigh every other conſideration, I dare
ſay ſhe would not be forry to ſee you here.
Come, then, I intreat you, as ſoon as you
poſſibly can. I have hired a man and boat to
tranſmit this to you; he will wait your orders,
and you may come with him. Indeed, if you
ever expect to ſee our devoted Eloiſa alive you
muſt not loſe an inſtant.

A
so LETTER XXVIII. Hoy
wiwanis, EU Set nois
FROM
ELOISA TO CLARA. dond
LAS! my dear Clara, how is the life you
have reſtored me embittered by your ab-
ſence! What ſatisfaction can there be in my
recovery, when I am ſtill preyed upon by a more
violent diſorder ?5: Cruel Clara ! to leave me,
when I ſtand moſt in need of your aſſiſtance.
You are to be abſent eight days, and perhaps by
that time my fate will be determined, and it
will be out of your power to ſee me more. Oh!
if you did but know his horrid propoſals, and the
manner of his ſtating them! To elope---
follow


E LO I SA.
143

follow him-----to be carried off.
What a
wretch! But of whom do I complain ? My
heart, my own baſe heart, has ſaid a thouſand
times more than ever he has mentioned. Good
God, if he knew all! Oh, it would haſten my
ruin-I ſhould be hurried to deſtruction-be
forced to go with him.--I ſhudder at the very
thought.
But has my father then fold me? Yes, he has
conſidered his daughter as mere property, and
hath conſigned her with as little remorſe as a
trader would a bale of goods. He purchaſes his
own eaſe and quiet at the price of all my future
comfort, nay, of my life itſelf—--for I ſee but
too well I can never ſurvive it. Barbarous,
unnatural, unrelenting father! Does he de-
ſerve?---But why do I talk of deſerving? He
is the beſt of fathers, and the only crime I can
alledge againſt him, is his defire of marrying me
to his friend. But my mother, my dear mother,
what has the done? Alas! too much-ſhe
has
loved me too much; and that very love has been

my ruin.
What ſhall I do, Clara ? What will become
of me? Hans is not yet come. I am at a loſs
how to convey this letter to you.
Before
you
receive it, before you return-perhaps a vaga-
bond, abandoned, ruined, and forlorn.
It is
over, it is over: the time is come. A day—an
hour-perhaps a moment-But who can reſiſt
their fate? -Oh! wherever I live, wherever I
die, whether in honour or diſhonour, in plenty or
in
144
E LO I S A.
in poverty, in pleaſure or in deſpair, remember,
I beſeech you, your dear, dear friend. But mif-
fortunes too frequently produce changes in our
affections. If ever I forget you, mine muſt be
altered indeed!
L E T T E R XXIX.
FROM ELOISA TO CLARA.
'AY-ſtay,
where you are! I intreat, I
conjure you-never, never think of return-
ing-at leaſt, not to me. I ought never to ſee
you more : for now, alas ! I can never behold
you as I ought. Where wert thou, my tender
friend, my only ſafeguard, my guardian angel ?
When thou wert gone, ruin inſtantly enſued.
Was that fatal abſence of your's ſo indiſpenſible,
ſo neceſſary, and couldſt thou leave thy friend
in the moſt critical time of danger? What an
inexhauſtible fund of remorſe haſt thou laid up
for thyſelf by ſo blameable a neglect! It will be
as bitter, as laſting, as my ſorrows. Thy loſs
is indeed as irretrievable as my own, and it were
as difficult to gain another friend equal to your-
ſelf, as, alas! it is impoſſible to recover my inno-

cence.
Ah! what have I ſaid? I can neither ſpeak
nor yet be filent; and to what purpoſe were my
ſilence, when my very ſorrows would cry out
againſt me? And does not all nature upbraid
me with my guilt ? Does not every object
4
around


E LO I S A,
145
around me remind me of my ſhame! I will, I
muſt, pour my whole foul into thine, or my
poor heart will burſt. Canít thou hear all this,
my ſecure and careleſs friend, without applying
ſome reproaches at leaſt to thyſelf? Even thy
faith and truth, the blind confidence of thy
friendſhip, but above all thy pernicivus indul-
gencies, have been the unhappy inſtruments of
my deſtruction.
What evil genius could inſpire you to invite
him to return-him, alas! who is now the cruel
authour of my diſgrace? --And am I indebted to
his care for a life which he hath fince made in-
ſupportable by his cruelty ? Inhuman as he is,
let him fly from me for ever, and deny himſelf
the ſavage pleaſure of being an eye-witneſs to
my forrows.--But why do I rave thus ! ---He is
not to be blamed--I alone am guilty--I alone
am the authour of my own misfortunes, and
ſhould therefore be the only object of anger and
reſentment. But vice, new as it is to me, has
already infected my very foul; and the firſt
diſmal effect of it is diſplayed in reviling the
innocent.
2002
No, no, he never was capable of being falſe
to his vows. His virtuous foul diſdains the low
artifice of impoſing upon credulity, or of injur-
ing her he loves. Doubtleſs, he is much more
experienced in the tender paſſions than I ever
was, ſince he found no difficulty to overcome
himſelf, and I, alas! fell a victim to my unruly
deſires. How often have I been a witneſs of
VOL. I.
G
his


146
E LO IS A.
his ſtruggles and his victory, and when the vio-
lence of his tranſports ſeemed to get the better
of his reaſon, he would ſtop on a ſudden, as a
if awed and checked by virtue, when he might
have led on to a certain triumph. I indulged
myſelf too much in beholding ſo dangerous an
object. I was aflicted at his fighs, moved with
his intreaties, and melted with his tears: I
ſhared his anxieties when I thought I was only
pitying them. I have ſeen him ſo affected, that
he ſeemed ready to faint at my feet. Love alone
night perhaps have been my ſecurity; but com-
paflion, O my Clara, has fatally undone me.
Thus, my unhappy paſſion aſſumed the form
of humanity, the more eaſily to deprive me of
the aſſiſtance of virtue. That very day he had
been particularly importunate, and preſſed me
to elope with him. This propoſal, connected
as it was with the miſery and diſtreſs of the beſt
of parents, ſhocked my very ſoul; nor could I
think with any patience of thus embittering
their comforts. The impoflibility of ever ful-
filling our plighted troth, the neceſſity there
was of concealing this impoſſibility from him,
the regret which I felt at deceiving fo tender and
paſſionate a lover, after having flattered his ex-
pectations--all theſe were dreadful circumſtances,
which lefſened my reſolution, increaſed my
weakneſs, blinded and ſubdued my reaſon. I
was then either to kill my parents, diſcard my
lover, or ruin myſelf: without knowing what I
did, I reſolved on the latter; and forgetting every

thing
E LO I S A.
147
thing elſe, thought only of my love. Thus,
one unguarded minute has betrayed me to endleſs
miſery. I am fallen into the abyſs of infamy,
from whence there is no return; and if I am to
live, it is only to be wretched.
However, while I am here, ſorrow ſhall be
my only comfort. You, my deareſt friend, are
my only reſource: oh! do not, do not leave me !
do not, I conjure thee, rob me of thy friendſhip.
I have indeed loſt all pretenſions to it, but my
ſituation makes it requiſite, my diſtreſſes now
demand it. If you cannot eſteem, you may at
leaſt pity ſo wretched a creature. Come, then,
my dear Clara, and open thy heart, that I may
pour in my complaints. Receive the tears of
your friend ; fhield her, if poſſible, from the
contempt of herſelf; and convince her ſhe hath
not loſt every thing, by her ftill poffefling your
heart.
L E T T E R XXX.
ANSWER.
O
H!
my
dear, dear friend, what have you
done! you who were the praiſe of every
parent, and the envy of every child.
What a
mortal blow has virtue itſelf received through
your means, who were the very pattern of dif-
cretion ! But what can I ſay to you in ſo
dreadful a fituation? Can I think of aggrava-
ting your ſorrows, and wounding a heart already
oppreſſed
G 2.

148
E L O IS A.
oppreſſed with grief; or can I give you a com-
fort, which, alas! I myſelf want? Shall I re-
fleet your image in all the diſmal colours of
your preſent diſtreſs; or ſhall I have recourſe
to artifice, and remind you not of what you are,
but of what you ought to be? Do thou, moſt
wholly and unſpotted Friendſhip, ſteal thy ſoft
veil over all my awakened ſenſes, and merci-
fully remove the fight of thoſe diſaſters thou
wert unable to prevent
You know I have long feared the misfortune
you are bewailing. How often have I foretold
it, and, alas ! how often been diſregarded ? Do
you blame me then for having truſted you too
much to your own heart? Oh! doubt not but I
would have betrayed you, if even that could
have been made the means of your preſervation;
but I knew better than yourſelf your own tender
ſenſations. I perceived but too plainly that
death or ruin were the melancholy alternatives;
and even when your apprehenfions made you
baniſh your lover, the only matter then in que-
ſtion, was, whether you ſhould deſpair, or he be
recalled. You will eaſily believe how dread-
fully I was alarmed, when I found you deter-
mined as it were againſt living, and juſt on the
verge of death. Charge not then your lover,
nor accuſe yourſelf of a crime of which I alone
am guilty, ſince I foreſaw the fatal effects, and
yet did not prevent them.
I left you indeed againſt my inclination, but
I was cruelly forced to it. Oh! could I have
foreſeen
E LO IS A.
149
angry with
foreſeen the near approach of your deſtruction, I
would have put every thing to the hazard fooner
than have complied. Though certain as to the
event, I was miſtaken as to the time of it. I thought
your weakneſs and your diſtemper a fufficient
ſecurity during ſo ſhort an abfence, and forgot
indeed the ſad dilemma you was fo foon to ex-
perience. I never conſidered that the weakneſs
of your body left your mind more defenfeleſs
in itſelf, and therefore more liable to be betrayed.
Miftaken as I
was, I can ſcarce be
myſelf, fince this very errour is the means of
faving your life. I am not, Eloiſa, of that
hardy temper which can reconcile me to thy
loſs, as thou wert to mine. Had I indeed loft
you, my deſpair would have been endleſs; and,
unfeeling as it may ſeem, I had rather you ſhould
live in forrow, I had almoſt ſaid in diſgrace,
than not to live at all.
But, my dear, my tender friend, why did
you
cruelly perſiſt in your diſquietude? Wherefore
ſhould your repentance exceed your crime, and
your contempt fall on the object which leaſt of
all deſerves it-yourſelf? Shall the weakneſs
of one unguarded moment be attended with fo
black a train of baleful conſequences ? And are
not the very dangers you have been ſtruggling
with, a felf-evident demonſtration of the great-
neſs of your virtue? You loſe yourſelf fo en-
tirely in the thought of your defeat, that you
have no leiſure to conſider the triumphs by
which it was preceded. If your tryals have been
ſharper,


G 3
150
. E LO I S'A.
thârper, your conqueſts more numerous, and
your reſiſtance more frequent, than thoſe who
have eſcaped, have not you then, I would aſk,
done more for virtue than they? If you can find
no circumſtances to juſtify, dwell on thoſe at
leaſt which extenuate and excuſe you. I my-
felf am a tolerable proficient in the art of love,
and though my own temper ſecures me againſt
its violent emotions, if ere I could have felt ſuch
a paſſion as your's my ſtruggles would have
been much fainter, my ſurrender more eaſy, and
more diſhonourable. Freed as I have been from
the temptation, it reflects no honour on my vir-
tue. You are the chaſter of the two, though
perhaps the moſt unfortunate.
You may perchance be offended that I am
ſo unreſerved; but unhappily your ſituation
makes it neceſſary. I wiſh from my ſoul,
what I have ſaid were not applicable to you;
for I deteft pernicious maxims more than bad
actions*. If the deed were not already done,
and I could have been ſo baſe to write, and you
to read and hear theſe axioms, we both of us
muſt be numbered in the wretched claſs of the
abandoned. But, as matters itand at preſent,
my duty as your friend requires this at my hands,
and you muſt give me the hearing, or you are
loft for ever. For you ſtill poſſeſs a thouſand
rare

* This ſentiment is a very juſt one. Diſorderly par-
fion's lead to bad actions. But pernicious maxims corrupt
the underſtanding, the very ſource and ſpring of good,
and cut off the poſſibility of a return to virtue.
E LO I SA.
151
rare endowments, which a proper eſteem of
yourſelf can alone cultivate and preſerve. Your
real worth will ever exceed your own opinion
of it.
Forbear then giving way to a ſelf-difeſteem
more dangerous and deſtructive than any weak-
neſs of which you could be guilty. Does true
love debaſe the ſoul? No; nor can any crime,
which is the reſult of that love, ever rob you
of that enthuſiaſtick ardour for truth and honour,
which ſo raiſed you above yourſelf? Are there
not ſpots viſible in the ſun? How many amiable
virtues do you ſtill retain, notwithſtanding one
errour, one relaxation in your conduct?
conduct? Will
it make you leſs gentle, leſs ſincere, leſs modeſt,
leſs benevolent? Or will you be leſs worthy
of all our admiration, of all our praiſe? Will
honour, humanity, friendſhip, and tender love
be leſs reſpected by you, or will you ceaſe to re-
vere even that virtue with which you are no lon-
ger adorned?
No, my dear, my charming
Eloiſa, your faithful Clara bewails and yet adores
thee; ſhe is convinced that you can never fail
admiring what you may be unable to practiſe.
Believe me, you have much yet to loſe before
you can fink to a level with the generality of
women.
After all, whatever have been your failings,
you yourſelf are ſtill remaining. I want no
other comfort, I dread no other loſs than you.
Your firſt letter fhocked me extremely, and
would have thrown me into deſpair, had I not
been


G4
152
E L O IS A.
been kindly relieved at the ſame time, by the
arrival of your laſt.
What! and could you
leave your friend, could you think of going
without me! You never mention this your
greateſt crime. It is this you ſhould bluſh at;
this too you ſhould repent of.
But the un-
grateful Eloiſa neglects all friendſhip, and thinks
only of her love.
I am extremely impatient till I ſee you, and am
continually repining at the flow progreſs of time.
We are to ftay at Lauſanne ſix days longer į
I fhall then fly to my only friend, and will then
either comfort or ſympathiſe, wipe away her
tears or ſhare her forrows. I fatter myſelf I
ſhall be able to make you liſten rather to the
ſoothing tenderneſs of friendſhip, than the harſh
language of reflexion. My dear couſin, we
muit bewail our misfortunes, and pour out our
hearts to each other in filence; and, if poſſible,
by dint of future exemplary virtue, bury in obli-
vion the memory of a failing which can never
be blotted out by tears. Alas! how much
do we now miſs our poor Challiot!

LET TER XXXI.
W
TO ELOISA.
HAT an amazing myſtery is the con-
duct and ſentiments of the charming
Eloiſa! Tell me, I beſeech you, by what ſur-
priſing art you alone can unite ſuch inconſiſtent
counteracting emotions? Intoxicated as I am
with
E L I S A.
153
with love and delight, my ſoul is overwhelmed
with grief and with deſpair. Amidſt the moſt
exquiſite pleaſures, I feel the moſt excruciating
anxieties ; nay, the very enjoyment of thoſe plea-
fures is made the ſubject of ſelf-accuſation, and
the aggravation of my diſtreſs. Heavens! what
a torment to be able to indulge no one ſenſation
but in a perpetual ſtruggle of jarring paſſions :
to be ever allaying the foothing tenderneſs of
love with the bitter pangs of reflexion! A
ſtate of certain miſery were a thouſand times
preferable to ſuch doubtful diſquietude. To
what purpoſe is it, alas ! that I myſelf have
been happy, when your misfortune can torment
me much more ſenſibly than my own? In vain do
you attempt to diſguiſe your own fad feelings,
when your eyes will betray what your heart la-
bours to conceal; and can thoſe expreſſive eyes
hide any thing from love's all penetrating fight?
Notwithſtanding your aſſumed gaiety, I fee--I
ſee the cankering anxiety; and your melancholy,
veiled as you may think by a ſmile, affects me
the more ſenſibly.
Surely you need no longer diſguiſe any thing
from me! While I was in your mother's room
yeſterday, ſhe was accidentally called out, and
left me alone. In the mean time, I heard fighs
that pierced my very foul. Could I, think you,
be at a loſs to gueſs the fatal cauſe? I went up
to the place from which they ſeemed to proceed,
and, on going into your chamber, perceived the
goddeſs of my heart fitting on the floor, her
head




G 5.
154
E LO I SA.
life your
head reclining on a couch, and almoſt drown-
ed in tears.
Oh! had my blood thus trickled
down, I ſhould have felt leſs pain. Oh! how my
foul melted at the fight! Remorſe ftung me to
the quick. What had been my ſupremeſt bliſs,
became my excruciating puniſhment. I felt only
then for you, and would have freely purchaſed
with
my your former tranquillity. I would
fain have thrown myſelf at your feet, kiſſed off
your falling tears, and, burying them at the bote
tom of my heart, have died or wiped them
away for ever; but your mother's return made
me haſten back to my poſt, and obliged me to
carry away your griefs, and that remorſe which
can never end but in death.
Oh ! how am I ſunk and mortified by your
ſorrow! How you muſt deſpiſe me if our union
is the cauſe of your own ſelf-contempt, and if
what has been my ſupreme happineſs proves the
deſtruction of your peace? Be more juſt to your-
ſelf, my deareſt Eloiſa, and lefs prejudiced
againſt the ſacred ties which your own heart ap-
proved. Have you not acted in ſtrict conformity
to the pureſt laws of nature? Have you not vo-
luntarily entered into the moſt folemn engage-
ments? Tell me, then, what you have done,
that all laws divine, as well as human, will not
ſufficiently juſtify? Is there any thing wanting
to confirm the facred tie, but the mere formal
ceremony of a publick declaration ? Be wholly
mine, and you are no longer to blame. O my
dear, my lovely wife, my tender and chaſte
companion,

E L O IS A.
155
companion, thou foother of all my cares, and
object of all my wiſhes, oh! think it not a crime
to have liſtened to your love; but rather think
it will be one to diſobey it for the future. To
marry any other man, is the only imputation you
can fix on your unimpeached honour. Would
you be innocent, be ever mine. The tie that
unites us is legal, is ſacred. Thediſregarding this
tie ſhould be the principal object of your concern.
Love from henceforward can be the only guar
dian of your virtue.
But, were the foundation of your forrows ever
fo juſt, ever ſo neceſſary, why am I robbed of
my property in them? Why ſhould not my eyes
too overflow and ſhare your grief? You ſhould
have no one pang that I ought not to feel, no
one anxietythat I ought not to ſhare. My heart
then, my jealous heart, but too juſtly reproaches
you
for
every fingle tear you pour not into my
boſom. Tell me, thou cold, diſſembling fair,
is not every ſecret of this kind an injury to my
paflion? Do you ſo ſoon forget the promiſe you
fo lately made? Oh! if you loved as I do, my
happineſs would comfort you as much as your
concern affects me, and you would feel my plea-
fures as I ſhare your anxieties!
But, alas! you conſider me as a poor wretch
whoſe reaſon is loft amidſt the tranſports of de-
light; you are frightened at the violence of my
joy, and compaſſionate the extravagance of my
delirium, without conſidering that the utmoſt
ſtrength of human nature is not proof againſt
G6
endleſs
156
E LO I SA.

endleſs pleaſures. How, think you, can a poor
weak mortal ſupport the ineffable delights of in-
finite happineſs? How do you imagine he can
bear ſuch extatick raptures without being loſt to
every other conſideration? Do not you know that
reaſon is limited, and that no underſtanding
can command itſelf at all times, and upon all oc-
caſions? Pity then, I befeech you, the diſtrac-
tion you occafion, and forgive the errours you
yourſelf have thrown me into. I own freely
to you, I am no longer maſter of myſelf. My
ſoul is totally abſorbed in your's. Hence am I
the more fitly diſpoſed to hear your ſorrows,
and the more worthy to participate them. Oh,
my deareſt Eloiſa! no longer conceal any thing
from your other ſelf.

L E T T E R XXXII.
ANSWER.

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


E LO IS A.
157
are now no more,
You have been an eye-witneſs of my concern,
and fondly therefore imagine you can diſcover
its true ſource. You endeavour to relieve me
by the mere force of elocution, and, while you
are thinking to delude me, are yourſelf the dupe
of your own artifice. The ſacrifice I have made
to my paſſion is a great one indeed; yet, great as
it is, it provokes neither my forrow nor my re-
pentance. But I have deprived this paſſion of
its moſt engaging circumſtances--there lies the
cauſe! that virtue which enchanted every thing
around it, is itſelf vaniſhed like a dream. Thoſe
inexpreſlible tranſports which at once gave vi-
gour to our affections, and purity to our deſires,
We have made pleaſure our
fole purſuit, and neglected happineſs has bid
us adieu for ever. Call but to mind thoſe
Halcyon days, when the fervency of our pallion
bore a proportion to its innocence, when the
violence of our affections gave us weapons againſt
itſelf! Then the purity of our intentions could
reconcile us to reſtraint, while with comfort we
reflected, that even theſe reſtraints ſerved to
heighten our deſires. Compare thoſe charming
times with our preſent ſituation. Violent emo-
tions, diſquieting fears, endleſs ſuſpicions, per-
petual alarms, are the melancholy fubſtitutes of
our former gay companions. Where is that zeal
for prudence and diſcretion which inſpired every
thought, directed every action, and refined the
delicacy of our love? Is the paſſion itſelf altered
or rather are we not moſt miſerably changed ?
Our


158
E LO IS A.
Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate
and laſting; they are now degenerated into
tranſports, reſembling rather the fury of mad-
neſs than the careffes of love.
A pure and holy
flame once glowed in our hearts, but now we
are funk into mere common lovers, through a
blind gratification of fenfual appetites. We
can now think ourſelves ſufficiently happy, if
jealouſy can give a poignancy to thoſe pleaſures,
which even the very brutes can taſte without it.
This, my dear friend, is the ſubject which
nearly concerns us both, and which indeed pains
me more on your account than my own. I ſay
nothing of the diſtreſs which is more immediately
mine. Your diſpoſition, tender as it is, can
fufficiently feel it: conſider the ſhame of
my
preſent ſituation, and, if you ſtill love me, give
a figh to my loſt honour. My crime is un-
atonable, my tears then I ſhould hope will be
as laſting as my diſhonour. Do not you, then,
who are the cauſe of this forrow, ſeek to deprive
me of this alſo. My only hope is founded in
its continuancé. Hard as my lot is, it would
be ſtill more deplorable if I could ever be coni-
forted. The being reconciled to diſgrace is the
laſt, worſt ſtate of the abandoned.
I am but too well acquainted with the cir-
cumſtances of my condition, and yet, amidſt all
the horrour they inſpire me with, I have one
comfort left-It is indeed the only one, but it
is agreeable. You, my dear friend, are its con-
ftant object; and ſince I dare no longer confider
5
myſelf,
E L O IS A.
159
myſelf, I take the greater ſatisfaction in think-
ing of you. The great thare of ſelf-eſteem which
you, alas ! have taken from me, is now tranſ-
ferred entirely to yourſelf; and you are become
the more dear to me for making me hate myſelf.
Love, even the fatal love which has proved my
deſtruction, is become the material circum-
ſtance in your favour. You are exalted while
I am abaſed; nay, my very abaſement is the
cauſe of your exaltation. Be henceforward then
my only hope. It is your's to juſtify my crime
by your conduct. Excuſe it at leaſt by your
virtuous demeanour. May your merit caſt a veil
over my diſgrace, and let the number of your
virtues make the loſs of mine leſs perceptible.
Since I am no longer any thing, be thou my
whole exiſtence. The only honour I have left
is ſolely centered in thee; and while thou art
in any degree reſpected, I can never be wholly
deſpiſed or rejected.
However ſorry I may be for the quick re-
my health, yet my artifice will no
longer ſtand me in any ſtead. My countenance
will ſoon give the lie to my pretences, and I
ſhall no longer be able to impoſe on my parents
a feigned indiſpoſition. Be quick then in taking
the ſteps we have agreed on, before I am forced
to reſume, my uſual buſineſs in my family. I
perceive but too plainly, that my mother is ſu-
ſpicious, and continually watches us. My fa-
ther indeed ſeems to know nothing of the mat-
ter. His pride has been hitherto our ſecurity.
Perhaps
covery of
160
E L O IS A.
Perhaps he thinks it impoffible that a mere tutor
can be in love with his daughter. But, after all,
you know his temper. If you do not prevent
him, he will you: do not then, through a fond
deſire of gaining your uſual acceſs, baniſh your-
ſelf entirely from the poſlibility of a return.
Take my advice, and ſpeak to my mother in
time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements,
in order to prevent your teaching me any longer ;
and let us give up the fatisfaction of ſuch fre-
quent interviews that we may make fure, at
leaſt, of meeting ſometimes. Conſider, if you
are once ſhut out, it is for ever ; but if you can
reſolve to deny yourſelf for a time, you may then
come when you pleaſe, and in time and by ma-
nagement may repeat your viſits often, without
any fear of ſuſpicion. I will tell you this
evening ſome other ſchemes I have in view for
our more frequent meeting, and you will then
be convinced that our conſtant couſin, at whoſe
prefence you have ſo often murmured, will now
be very uſeful to two lovers, who, in truth,
ſhe ought never to have left alone.

LET TER XXXII.
FROM
ELOISA.

AH
H! my dear friend, what a miſerable aſy-
lum for lovers is a crowded aſſembly!
What inconceivable torment, to ſee each other
under the reſtraint of what is called good breed-
ing!

E LO IS A.
161
ing! Surely abſence were a thouſand times
more ſupportable! Is calmneſs and compoſure
compatible with ſuch emotions? Can the lover
be ſelf-confiſtent, or with what attention can
he conſider ſuch a number of objects, when one
alone poſſeſſes his whole foul? When the heart
is fired, can the body be at reft? You cannot
conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you
were coming. Your name ſeemed a reproach
to me, and I could not help imagining that the
whole company's attention was fixed upon me
alone. I was immediately loft, and bluſhed fo
exceedingly, that my couſin, who obſerved me,
was obliged to cover me with her fan, and
pre-
tend to whiſper me in the ear. This very arti-
fice, fimple as it was, increaſed my apprehen-
fions, and I trembled for fear they ſhould per-
ceive it. In ſhort, every, the moſt minute, cir-
cumſtance was a freſh ſubject for alarm; never
did I ſo fully experience the truth of that well-
known axiom, that a guilty conſcience needs
no accuſer.
Clara pretended to obſerve that you was
equally embarraſſed, uncertain what to do, not
daring either to advance or retire, to take notice
of me or not, and looking all round the room
to give you a pretence, as ſhe ſaid, to look, at
laſt, on me. As I recovered from my confu-
fion by degrees, I perceived your diſtreſs, till,
by Mrs. Belon's coming up to you, you was
relieved.


I per-
162
E LO IS A.
I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner
of living, which is embittered with ſo much
conſtraint, and ſweetened with fo little pleaſure,
is not ſuited to us. Our paſſion is too noble to
bear
perpetual chains. Theſe publick aſſemblies
are only fit for thoſe who are ſtrangers to love,
or who can with eaſe diſpenſe with ceremony.
My anxieties are too diſquieting, and your in-
diſcretions too dangerous: I cannot always have
a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diverfion.
Let us return, let us return to that calm ftate
of life from whence I have ſo inadvertently
drawn you. It was that ſituation which gave
riſe and vigour to our paffion; perhaps too it may
be weakened by this diſlipated manner of living.
The trueſt paſſions are formed and nourifhed in
retirement. In the buſy circle of the world
there is no time for receiving impreſſions, and
even, when received, they are conſiderably
weakened by the variety of avocations which
continually occur. Retirement too beſt ſuits
my melancholy, which, like my love, can be fup-
ported only by thy dear image. I had rather fee
you tender and paſſionate in my heart, than
under conſtraint and diffipation in an aſſembly.
There
may perhaps come a time, when I ſhall be
forced to a much cloſer retreat. O that ſuch
time were already come! Common prudence,
as well as my own inclinations, require that I
ſhould inure myſelf by times to habits which ne-
ceflity may demand. Oh! if the crime itſelf
could produce the cauſe of its atonement ! The
pleaſing
E LO I SA.
163
pleaſing hopes of being one day-But I ſhall
inadvertently ſay more than I am willing on the
deſign I have in view. Forgive me this one
ſecret, my dear friend; my heart ſhall never
conceal any thing that would give you pleaſure :
yet you muſt, for a time, be ignorant of this.
All I can ſay of it at preſent is, that love, which
was the occaſion of our misfortunes, ought to
furniſh us with relief. You may reaſon and
comment upon this hint as much as you pleaſe;
but I poſitively forbid all queſtions.
LET TER XXXIV.
ANSWER.
No, non vedrete mai
S
Cambier gli affetti miei,
Bei lumi onde ímparai
A foſpirar d'amor.
No, no, the fond and faithful heart
Can ne'er inconſtant prove,
Mean while the ſpeaking eyes impart
The expreſſive looks of love.
OW greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs.
Belon for the pleaſure the procured me!
Forgive me, my deareſt Eloiſa, when I tell you, ,
that I even dared to take ſome pleaſure in your
diſtreſs, and that your very anxiety afforded me
moſt exquiſite delight. Oh! what raptures did
I feel at thoſe ſtolen glances, that downcaſt mo-
deſty, that care with which you avoided meet-
HB
ing

164
E LO I SA.
ing my eyes! What then, think you, was the
employment of your too, too happy lover? Was
he indeed converſing with Mrs. Belon? Did
you really think ſo, my lovely Eloiſa? Oh, no,
enchanting fair! he was much more worthily
employed. With what an amazing ſympa-
thy did my heart ſhare each emotion of thine !
With what a greedy impatience did I explore
the beautiful ſymmetry of thy perſon! Thy
love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole foul,
which was hardly able to contain the raviſhing
idea. The only allay to all this pleaſure, was,
that I feaſted at your expenſe, and felt the tender
ſenſations which you, alas! was abſolutely un-
able to participate.-Can I tell one word that
Mrs. Belon ſaid to me? Could I have told it,
at the very time ſhe was ſpeaking? Do I know
what anſwers I made? Or did ſhe underſtand
me at all? But indeed how could ſhe compre-
hend the diſcourſe of one who ſpoke without
thinking, and anſwered without conceiving the
queſtion,
Comº huom, che par ch' aſcolti, e nulla intende.
Like men who hear, but nothing underſtand.
I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She
has fince told all the world, and perhaps you
among the reſt, that I have not common ſenſe;
but what is ſtill worſe, not a ſingle grain of wit,
and that I am as dull and fooliſh as my books.
But no matter how ſhe thinks, or what ſhe ſays
Is not Eloiſa the fole miſtreſs of
my
fate,

of me.

E L O I SA.
165
fate, and does not ſhe alone determine my fu-
ture rank and eſtimation? Let the reſt of the
world ſay of me what they think proper; my-
felf, my underſtanding, and my accompliſh-
ments, all abfolutely depend on the value you
are pleaſed to fix on them.
Be affured neither Mrs. Belon, nor any fu-
perior beauty, could ever delude my attention
from Eloiſa. If, after all this, you ſtill doubt
my fincerity, and can injure my love and your
own charms ſo much as ſtill to ſuſpect me, pray
tell me, how I became acquainted with every
minute particular of your conduct? Did not I
fee
you ſhine among the inferior beauties, like
the ſun among the ſtars, that were eclipſed by
your radiance? Did not I ſee the young fellows
hovering about your chair, and buzzing in your
ear? Did not I perceive you fingled out from
the reſt of your ſex to be the object of univerſal
admiration? Did not I perceive their ſtudied
affiduities, their continual compliments, and
your cold and modeft indifference, infinitely
more affecting than the moſt haughty demeanour
you could poſſibly have aſſumed? Yes, my
Eloiſa, I ſaw the effect produced by the fight
of your ſnowy delicate arm, when you pulled
off your glove; I ſaw too that the young ftran-
ger who picked it up ſeemed tempted to kiſs the
charming hand that received it. And did not
1 ſee a ftill bolder ſwain - whoſe ſteady ftare
obliged you to add another pin to your tucker?
All this may perhaps convince you I was not ſo
abſent



166
E LO IS A.
abſent as you imagine; not that I was in the leaſt
jealous ; for I know your heart was not caſt in
ſuch a mold as to be ſuſceptible of every paffion:
nor will you, I hope, think otherwiſe of mine.
Let us then return to that calm, bleft retire-
ment, which I quitted with ſuch regret. My
heart finds no ſatisfaction in the tumultuous hurry
of the world. Its empty, tinſel pleaſures diſ-
poſe it only to lament the want of more ſubſtan-
tial joys the more feelingly, and make it pre-
fer its own real ſufferings to the melancholy train
of continual diſappointments. Surely, Eloiſa,
we may attain much more ſolid ſatisfaction, in
any ſituation, than under our preſent reſtraint.
And yet you ſeem to forget it. To be ſo near
each other for a whole fortnight without meet-
ing! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured
enraptured heart! Abſence itſelf would be in-
finitely more ſupportable. Tell me to what
end can you make uſe of a diſcretion, which
occaſions more misfortunes than it is able to
prevent? Of what importance can it be to
prolong a life, in which every ſucceeding mo-
ment brings freſh puniſhment ? Were it not
better, yes, ſurely, a thouſand times, to meet
once more at all events, and then ſubmit to our
fate with reſignation.
I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain
know the utmoſt of the ſecret you conceal.
There never was a diſcovery that could intereſt
me ſo deeply : but all my endeavours are in vain.
I can, however, be as ſilent as you could wiſh,
and

E LO I SA.
167
and repreſs my forward curioſity. But may I
not hope foon to be ſatisfied ? Perhaps you are
ſtill in the caſtle building ſyſtem. O, thou
dear object of my affections ! ſurely now it is
high time to improve all our ſchemes into reality,
P.S. I had almoſt forgot to tell you that M.
Roguin made me an offer of a company in the
regiment he is raiſing for the king of Sardinia.
I was highly pleaſed at this ſignal mark of that
brave man's eſteem, and, thanking him for his
kindneſs, told him, the ſhortneſs of my ſight
and great love of a ſtudious and ſedentary life
unfitted me for ſo active an employment. My
love can claim no great ſhare in this facrifice.
Every one, in my opinion, owes his life to his
country, which therefore he ſhould not riſk in
the ſervice of thoſe princes to whom he is no
ways indebted ; much leſs is he at liberty to let
himſelf out for hire, and turn the nobleſt pro-
feſſion in the world to that of a vile mercenary.
Theſe maxims I claim by inheritance from my
father; and happy enough ſhould I be, could I
imitate him as well in his ſteady adherence to
his duty, and love to his country. He never
would enter into the ſervice of any foreign
prince, but in the year 1712 acquired great re-
putation in fighting for his country. He ſerved
in many engagements, in one of which he was
wounded, and at the battle of Wilmerghen was
ſo fortunate as to take a ſtandard from the enemy
in the fight of General Sacconex.
L ET TER
168
E LO I S A.
3:
13b
LETTER XXXV.
FROM ELOISA.
I
Could never think, my dear friend, that
what I hinted of Mrs. Belon in jeſt could
have excited ſo long or ſo ſerious an explanation.
An over eagerneſs in one's own defenſe is ſome-
times productive of the very reverſe of its in-
tention, and fixes a laſting ſuſpicion, inſtead of
removing or lightening the accuſation. The
moſt trifling incidents, when attended to mi-
nutely, immediately grow up into events of im-
portance. Our fituation indeed ſecures us from
making this caſe our own; for our hearts are
too buſy to liſten to mere punctilios; though
all diſputes between lovers on points of little
moment have too often a much deeper foun-
dation than they imagine.
I am rather glad, however, of the opportunity
which this accident has given me, of ſaying
ſomewhat to you on the ſubject of jealouſy.---a
ſubject which, alas, but too nearly concerns
me. I ſee, my dear friend, by the fimilitude of
our tempers and near alliance of our diſpoſi-
tions, that love alone will be the great buſineſs
of our lives: and ſurely when ſuch impreſſions
as we feel have been once made, love muſt either
extinguiſh or abſorb every other paſſion. The
leaſt relaxation in our paffion muſt inevitably
produce a moſt dangerous lethargy-a total
apathy-an indifference to every enjoyment, and


a dif-
E LO IS A.
169

.
a difreliſh of every preſent comfort would very
foon take place, if our affections were once
cooled, and indeed life itſelf would then become
a burthen. With reſpect to myſelf, you can-
not but perceive, that the preſent tranfports
of my paſſion could alone veil over the horrour
of my diſaſtrous ſituation, and the fad alter-
native propoſed to my choice, is the extrava--
gance of love, or a death of deſpair. Judge,
then, if after this I am able to determine a point
on which the happineſs or miſery of my future
life ſo abſolutely depends.
If I may be allowed to know any thing of
my own temper and difpofition, though I am
oftentimes diſtracted with violent emotions, it
is but ſeldom that their influence can hurry me
into action. My ſorrows muſt have preyed on
my heart for a long time before I could ever be
prevailed on to diſcover the ſource of them to
their authour; and being firmly perſuaded that
there can be no offenſe without intention, I
would much rather ſubmit to a thouſand real
ſubjects of complaint than ever come to an ex-
planation. A diſpoſition of this kind will nei-
ther eaſily give way to ſuſpicion, nor be anxiouſ-
ly concerned at the jealouſy of others. Oh!
ſhield me, gracious heaven, from the tormenting
pangs of groundleſs jealouſy !- I am fully
aſſured that your heart was made for mine, and
no other; but ſelf-deceit is of all others
the moſt eaſy impoſition: a tranſient liking is
often miſtaken for a real paſſion, as it is difficult
VOL. I.
H
to
170
E L O. I S A.
blame me,
to diſtinguiſh the effects of ſudden fancy front
the reſult of a fincere and ſettled affection. If
you yourſelf could doubt your own conſtancy
without any reaſon, how could you
were I capable of miſtruſting you ?--But that
way
leads to miſery. So cruel a doubt as that
would embitter the remainder of my life. I
ſhould figh in ſecret without complaining, and
die an inconſolable martyr to my paſſion,
But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune,
the idea of which ihocks my very foul
.
ſoul. Swear
to me, my dear, dear friend ! but not by love,
for lovers oaths are never kept but when they
are unneceſſarily made; but ſwear by the ſacred
name of honour, which you highly revere, that
I ſhall ever be the confident of your inmoſt
thoughts, the repoſitory of all your ſecrets, the
witneſs of all your emotions, and if perchance
(which gracious heaven avert!) if any change
ſhould take place in your affections, ſwear
moreover that you will inſtantly inform me of
fo intereſting a revolution. Think not to ex-
cuſe yourſelf, by alledging that ſuch a change is
impoflible. I believe-I hope-nay, I am well
affured of your ſincerity: oblige me, however
,
and prevent all falſe alarms; take from me the
poſſibility of doubting, and ſecure my preſent
peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard
foever it might be, were much better than,
through ignorance of the truth, to be perpetu-
ally expoſed to the tortures of imaginary evils,
Some comfort, fome alleviation of
my
ſorrows
would

ISO
E L O IS A.
171
Would ariſe from your remorſe. Though my
affections muſt ceaſe, you would neceſſarily
become the partner of my griefs: and even my
own anxiety, when poured into your breaſt,
would ſeem leſs diſtracting.
It is on this account, my dear friend, that I
congratulate myſelf more eſpecially on the fond
choice of my heart; that honour ſtrengthens and
confirms the bond which affection firſt begun;
and that my ſecurity depends not on the violence
of paffion, but the more ſober and ſettled di&-
ates of principle: it is this which cements, at the
ſame time that itenſures the affections; it is this
virtue that muſt reconcile us to our woes.
Had
it been my fad misfortune to have fixed my
affections on a lover void of principle, even
fuppofing thoſe affections ſhould continue un-
changeable, yet what ſecurity ſhould I have of
the continuance of his love! By what methods
could I filence thoſe perpetual miſgivings that
would be ever riſing in my mind, and in what
manner could I be aſſured that I was not impoſed
on, either by his artifice or my own credulity?
But thou, my dear, my honourable friend, who
haft no dark deſigns to cover, no ſecret frauds
to practiſe, thou wilt, I am well aſſured, preſerve
the conſtancy thou haſt avowed. You will never
be Thamed out of your duty, through the falſe
baſhfulneſs of owning an infidelity ; and when
you can no longer love your Eloiſa, you will
frankly tell her ſo-yes, you will ſay, My Eloita,
H 2
I do
172
E LO IS A.
I do not-But I cannot-indeed, I cannot, finiſh
the ſentence.
What do
you think of my propoſal? I am
ſure it is the only one I can think of to pluck up
jealouſy by the root, There is a certain deli-
cacy, a tender confidence, which perſuades me
to rely fo entirely on your ſincerity, as to make
me incapable of believing any accuſation which
comes not from your own lips. Theſe are the
good effects I expect from your promiſe; for
though I ſhould eaſily believe that you are as
fickle as the reſt of your ſex, yet I can never be
perſuaded that you are equally falfe and deceit-
ful; and, however I might doubt of the con-
ſtancy of your affections, I can never bring
myſelf to ſuſpect your honour. What a plea-
fure do I feel in taking precautions in this matter,
which I hope will always be needleſs, and to
prevent the very poſſibility of a change, which
I am perſuaded will never happen? Oh! how
delightful it is to talk of jealouſy to fo faithful
a lover! If I thought you capable of incon-
ftancy, I ſhould not talk thus. My poor heart
would not be ſo diſcreet in the time of ſo much
danger, and the leaſt real diſtruſt would de-
prive me of the prudence neceſſary for my ſecu-
rity.
This ſubject, honoured maſter, may be more
fully diſcuſſed this evening; for your two huma
ble ſcholars are to have the honour of ſupping
with you at my uncle's. Your learned com-
mentaries on the Gazette have raiſed you ſo
highly

ELOISA
373
Clarens grove.
highly in his eſteem, that no great artifice was
wanting to perſuade him to invite you. The
daughter has put her harpſichord in tune, the
father has been poring over Lamberti, and I
ſhall perhaps repeat the leffon I firſt learnt in
You who are a maſter of every
ſcience muſt adapt your knowledge and inſtruc-
tions to our ſeveral capacities. Mr. Orbe (who
is invited you may be ſure) has had notice given
him to prepare a differtation on the nature of the
King of Naples's future homa ge; this will give
us an opportunity of going into my couſin's
apartment. There, vafial, on thy knees, before
thy ſovereign miſtreſs, thy hands claſped in
her's, and in the preſence of her chancellor,
thou ſhalt vow truth and loyalty on every occa-
fion: I do not ſay eternal love, becauſe that is
a thing which no one can abſolutely promiſe ;
but truth, fincerity, and frankneſs are in every
one's diſpoſal, to theſe therefore thou ſhalt ſwear.
You need not vow eternal fealty; but you
muſt
and ſhall vow to commit no act of felonious in-
tention, and at leaſt to declare open war before
you ſhake off the yoke. This done, you ſhall
ſeal it with an embrace, and be owned and ac-
knowledged for a true and loyal knight.
Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I
have formed of this evening have given me all
theſe fpirits. I ſhall be doubly bleſſed to ſee you
a partaker of my joy.



H 3
L E T TER
374
E LO IS A.
L E T T E R
XXXVI.
FROM ELOISA.
KA
ISS this welcome letter, and leap for joy
at the news I am going to tell you: but
be aſſured that though my emotions ſhould prove
leſs violent I am not a whit leſs rejoiced. My
father being obliged to go to Bern on ac-
count of a law-ſuit, and from thence to Soleure
for his penſion, propoſes to take
propoſes to take my mother
along with him, to which ſhe is the more wil.
ling to conſent, as ſhe hopes to receive benefit
from the journey and change of air. They were
ſo obliging as to offer to take me along with
them. I did not think proper to ſay all I thought
on the occafion; but their not being able to
find convenient room for me made them change
their intentions with reſpect to my going, and
they are now all endeavouring to comfort me for
the diſappointment. I was obliged to aſſume a
very melancholy air, as if almoſt inconſoleable;
and, ridiculous as it is, I have diſſembled fo
long, that I am ſometimes apt to fancy I feel a
real forrow.
I am not, however, to be abſolutely my own
miſtreſs while my parents are abſent, but to live
at my uncle's; ſo that during the whole time
I ſhall be always with my conſtant couſin. My
mother chooſes to leave her own woman behind :
Bab, therefore, will be conſidered as a kind of
governeſs to me. But we need not be very ap-
prehenſive of thoſe whom we have no need either
to



E LO I SA.
175
to bribe or to truſt, but who may be eaſily got
rid of whenever they grow troubleſome, by
means of any trilling allurement.
You will readily conceive, I dare ſay, what
opportunities we ſhall have of meeting during
their abſence; but our diſcretion muſt furniſh
thoſe reſtraints which our ſituation has taken
off for a while, and we muſt then voluntarily
ſubmit to that reſerve, to which at preſent we
are obliged by neceffity. You muſt, when I
am at my couſin's, come no oftener than
you
did before, for fear of giving offenſe, and I hope
there will be no need of reminding you of the
affiduous reſpect and civility, which her ſex and
the ſacred laws of hoſpitality require; and that
you yourſelf will ſufficiently conſider what is
due to the friendſhip that gives an aſylum to
your love. I know your cager diſpoſition; but
I am convinced, at the ſame time, that there are
bounds which can reſtrain it. Had you never
governed your violence by the known laws of
honour, you had not been troubled at preſent
with any admonitions, at leaſt with none from





me.
But why that downcaſt look, that lowering
air? Why repine at the reſtraints which duty
preſcribes ? Be it thy Eloiſa's care to footh and
ſoften them. Had you ever cauſe to repent of
having liſtened to my advice? Near the flowery
banks of the head of the river Vevaiſe there
ſtands a ſolitary hut, which ſerves fometimes as
a fhelter to ſportſmen, and ſurely may alſo
Thelter

H 4

376
E LO I SA.
Thelter lovers. Hard by the manſion-houſe which
belongs to Mr. Orbe are ſeveral th atched dairy-
houſes, ſufficiently remote, which may ſerve as
a retirement for love and pleaſure, ever the trueſt
friends to ruſtick ſimplicity. The prudent milk-
maids will keep the ſecret; for they have often
need of ſecrecy. The ſtreams which water the
adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering
forubs, and charming ſhady groves, while at
fome little diſtance the thickneſs of the neigh-
bouring woods ſeems to promiſe a more gloomy
and ſecluded retreat.
ted, but
od: 10 Al bel ſeggio ripoſto, ombroſo e fosco, bao
Ne mai paflori apprefan, ne bifolci. anonim
Some ſweet receſs within the duſky ſhade,
Which thepherd ſwain nor cow-herd e'er approach.
In this delightful place, no veſtiges are ſeen
of human toil, no appearance of ſtudied and la-
borious art; every object preſents only a view of
the tender care of nature, our common mother,
Here then, my dear friend, we ihall be only
under nature's directions, and know no other
law but her's. At Mr. Orbe's invitation, Clara
has already perſuaded her father to take the di-
verſion of hunting for two or three days in this
part of the world, and to carry the two inſe-
parables with him. Theſe inſeparables have
others likewiſe cloſely connected with them, as
you know but too well. The one, affuming the
character of maſter of the houſe, will conſe-
quently do the honours, while the other with
lefs
2

E LO I SA.
177


leſs parade will do thoſe of a dairy-houſe for his
Eloiſa, and this rural hut, dedicated to love, will
be to them the Temple of Gnidus. To fucceed
the more effectually in this charming project,
there will be wanting a little previous contri-
vance, which may be eaſily ſettled between us,
and the very conſideration of which will form a
part of thoſe pleaſures they are intended to pro-
duce.--Adieu, my dear life! I leave off ab-
ruptly for fear of being ſurpriſed. The heart of
thy devoted Eloiſa anticipates, alas ! too eagerly
the pleaſures of the dairy-houſe.
P. S. Upon fecond thoughts, I begin to be
of opinion that we may meet every day without
any great danger; that is, at my couſin's every
other day, and in the field on every intermediate
one.
LET TER XXXVII.
FROM
OM EL
ELOISA.

TH
HEY left me this very morning-my
tender father, and ſtill fonder mother, took
leave of me but juſt now ; overwhelmed their
beloved daughter (too unworthy, alas! of all
their affection) with repeated careſſes. For my
own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance
at this feparation! I embraced them with an
outward appearance of concern, while my un.
grateful and unnatural heart was leaping within
me for joy. Where, alas! is now that happy
time

H 5
178
E LO I SA.
time, when I led an innocent life under their
continual obſervation, when my only joy was
their approbation--my only concern their ab-
ſence or neglect? Behold now the melancholy
reverſe! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the
very thought of them gives me pain, and the
recollection of myſelf makes me bluſh with con-
fufion. All my virtuous ideas now vaniſh away
like a dream, and leave in their ſtead empty diſ-
quietudes and barren remorſe, which, bitter as
they are, are nevertheleſs inſufficient to lead me
to repentance. Theſe cruel reflexions have
brought on all that ſorrow which the taking
leave of my parents was unable to effect : and
yet immediately on their departure I felt an
agony of grief. While Bab was ſetting things
to rights after them, I went into my mother's
room, as it were mechanically, without knowing
what I did, and ſeeing ſome of her clothes lying
ſcattered about, I took them up one by one,
kiſſed them, and bathed them with my tears.
This ventto my anxiety afforded me preſent eaſe,
and it was ſome comfort to me to reflect that
I was ſtill awake to nature's ſoft emotions, and
that her gentle fires were not entirely extin-
guiſhed in my ſoul.-In vain, cruel tyrant! doft
thou ſeek to ſubject this weak and tender heart,
to thy abſolute dominion: notwithſtanding all
thy fond illuſions, it ſtill retains the ſentiments
of duty, ſtill cheriſhes and reveres parental rights,
much niore ſacred than thy own.
Forgive


Ε Ι Ο Ι S Α.
Forgive me, my dear friend, theſe involun-
tary emotions, nor imagine that I carry theſe re-
flexions farther than I ought. Love's ſoft mo-
ments are not to be expected amidſt the tortures
of anxiety. I cannot conceal my ſufferings from
you, and yet I would not overwhelm you with
them; nay, you muſt know them, though not
to ſhare, yet to foften them. But into whoſe
boſom dare I pour them, if not into thine! Are
not you my faithful friend, my prudent coun-
fellor, my tender comfort ? Have you not been
foſtering in my foul the love of virtue, when,
alas ! that virtue itſelf was no longer in me?
How often ſhould I have funk under the preſſure
of my affiliations had not thy pitying hand re-
lieved me from my ſorrows, and wiped away
It is your tender care alone ſupports
I dare not abaſe myſelf while you continue
to eſteem me, and I fatter myſelf, that if I
were indeed contemptible, none of
or could ſo honour me with your regard.--I am
flying to the arms of my dear couſin, or rather
to the heart of a tender ſiſter, there to repoſe
the load of grief with which I am oppreſſed.
Come thither this evening, and contribute to
reſtore to me that peace and ſerenity, of which
I have long been deprived.
- i stort glamohen 9750 doll bro


my tears?
me,
you would

SI

geidsor calidsoh nooit
H6
L ET TER
180
E LO I SA.
LETTER XXXVIII.
TO
ELOISA.

N.
FO, Eloiſa, it is impoſſible! I can never
bear to ſee you every day, if I am always
to be charmed in the manner I was laſt night,
My affection muſt ever bear proportion to the
diſcovery of your beauties, and you are an in-
exhauſtible ſource of endleſs wonder and delight,
beyond my utmoſt hopes, beyond my moſt fana
guine expectations! What a delicious even-
ing to me was the laſt! what amazing raptures
did I feel! O enchanting forrow!. How infi-
nitely doth the pleaſing languor of a heart ſoften-
ed by concern furpaſs the boiſterous pleaſures,
the fooliſh gaiety, and the extravagant joy with
which a boundleſs paffion inſpires the ungovern-
able lover! O peaceful bliſs ! never, never
fhall thy pleafing idea be torn from my memory!
Heavens, what an enchanting fight! it was ex-
tafy itſelf, to ſee two ſuch perfect beauties em-
brace each other ſo affectionately; your face re-
clined upon her breaſt, mixing your tender tears
together, and bedewing that charming boſom,
juſt as heaven refreſhes a bed of new-blown
flowers. I grew jealous of ſuch a friendſhip,
and thought there was ſomething more inte-
reſting in it than even in love itſelf. I was
grieved at the impoflibility of conſoling you,
without diſturbing you at the ſame time by the
violence of
my
emotion. No, nothing, nothing
upon
E L O IS A.
181

upon earth is capable of exciting ſo pleaſing a
ſenſation as your mutual careſſes. Even the
ſight of two lovers would have been lefs de-
lightful.
Oh! how could I have admired, nay, adored
your dear couſin, if the divine Eloiſa herſelf
had not taken up
all my thoughts! You throw,
my deareſt angel, an irreſiſtible charm on every
thing that ſurrounds you. Your gown, your
gloves, fan, work, nay, every thing that was
the object of my outward ſenſes, enchanted my
very ſoul, and you yourſelf completed the en-
chantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear Eloiſa,
nor deprive me of all ſenſation, by making my
enjoyment too exquiſite. My tranſports ap-
proach fo nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be
apprehenſive I ſhall loſe my reaſon. Let me, at
leaſt, be ſenſible of my felicity—let me at leaſt
have a rational idea of thoſe raptures, which are
more ſublime, and more penetrating, than my
glowing imagination could paint. How can you
think yourſelf diſgraced ? This very thought is
a ſure proof that your ſenſes likewiſe are affected.
Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I
ſhould believe you to be of a more exalted, purer
ſpecies, if the violence of my paſſion did not
clearly evince that we are of a kinder frame.
No human being conceives your excellence ;
you are unknown even to yourſelf; my heart
alone knows and can eſtimate its Eloiſa. Were
you only an idol of worſhip, could you have
been enraptured with the dull homage of ad-
baigimo
miring
182
E LO I SA.
Tell me,
miring mortals? Were you only an angel, how
much would you loſe of your real value !
if
you can, how ſuch a paſſion as
mine is capable of increaſing? I am ignorant
of the means, yet am but too ſenſible of the fact.
You are, indeed, ever preſent with me, yet there
are times in which your beautiful image
is
pe-
culiarly before me, and haunts me as it were
with ſuch amazing affiduity, that neither time
nor place can deprive me of the delightful ob-
ject. I even believe you left it with me in the
dairy-houſe, in the conclufion of your laſt let-
ter; for, ſince you mentioned that rural ſpot, I
have been continually rambling in the fields,
and am always inſenſibly led towards the place.
Every time I behold it, it appears ſtill more
enchanting.
Non vide il mondo ſi leggiadri rami,
Ne moje'l vento mai ſi verdi frondi.
rom brand
The world affords not ſuch a charming ſcene, lg
Of gently-waving trees and hedge-rows green.
si tot
I find the country more delightful, the ver-
dure freſher and livelier, the air more temperate
and ferene than ever I did before, even the fea-
thered fongſters of the ſky ſeem to tune their
tender throats with more harmony and pleaſure;
the murmuring rills invite to love-inſpiring dal-
liance, while the bloſſoms of the vine regale me
from afar with the choiceſt perfumes. Some
ſecret charm enlivens every object, or raiſes my
ſenſations to a more exquiſite degree.. I am
ganum
tempted


E LO IS A.
183
tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns
herſelf to make a nuptial bed for your happy
lover, worthy of the paſſion which he feels, and
the goddeſs he adores.--0, my Eloiſa, my
dearer, better half! let us immediately add to
theſe beauties of the ſpring, the preſence of two
faithful lovers. Let us carry the ſentiments of
true pleaſure to places which comparatively afford
but an empty idea of it. Let us animate all
nature, which is abſolutely dead without the ge-
nial warmth of love. Am I yet to ſtay three
days, three whole days! Oh! what an age to a
fond expecting lover ! Intoxicated with my paſ-
fion, I wait that happy moment with the moſt
melancholy impatience. Oh! how happy ſhould
we be, if heaven would annihilate thoſe tedious
intervals which retard the bliſsful moment!

LET TER XXXIX.
FROM ELOISA.
T:
mot
HERE is not a ſingle emotion of your
heart which I do not ſhare with the ten-
dereft concern. But, talk no more of pleaſure,
whilſt others, who have deſerved much better
than either of us, are ſuffering under the preſſure
of the ſevereſt affliction. Read the encloſed,
and then be compoſed if you can. 1, indeed,
who am well acquainted with the good girl who
wrote it, was not able to proceed without ſhed-
ing tears of forrow and compaſſion. The
recollection


184
E LO IS A.
recollection it gave me of my blameable negli-
gence touched
my very foul ; and, to my bitter
confufion, I perceive but too plainly that à
forgetfulneſs of the principal points of my duty
has extended itſelf to all thoſe of inferiour con-
fideration. I had promiſed this poor child to
take care of her: I recommended her to my
mother, and kept her in ſome degree under my
continual inſpection: but, alas ! when I became
unable to protect myſelf, I abandoned her too,
and expoſed her to worſe misfortunes than even
I myſelf have fallen into. I ſhudder to think
that had I not been roufed from my careleſſneſs,
in two days time my ward would have been
ruined; her own indigence, and the fnares of
others, would have ruined--for ever ruined, a
modeſt and diſcreet girl, who may hereafter
poſſibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear
friend! can there be ſuch vile creatures upon
earth, who would extort from the depth of mi-
fery what the heart alone ſhould give ? That
any one can ſubmit to receive the tender embraces
of love from the arms of famine itſelf !
Can you be unmoved at my Fanny's filial
piety, at the integrity of her ſentiments, and the
fimplicity of her innocence? But are you not
affected with the uncommon tenderneſs of the
lover, who will ſell even himſelf to affiſt his
poor miſtreſs? Would not you think yourſelf
too happy to be the inſtrument of uniting a cou-
ple ſo well formed for each other? If we, alas!
(whoſe fituation fo much reſembles their’s) do
100



not

E LO I SA.
185
not compaſſionate lovers who are united by na-
ture, but divided by misfortunes, where elſe
can they ſeek relief with a probability of ſucceſs?
For my own part, I have determined to make
ſome amends for my neglect, by contributing
my utmoſt endeavours to unite theſe two young
people. Heaven will, I hope, aſſiſt the generous
undertaking, and my ſucceſs may prove a good
omen to us. I deſire, nay, conjure you, by all
that is good and dear to you, to ſet out for Neuf.
chatel the very moment you receive this, or to-
morrow morning at fartheit. You will then go
to M. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young
man’s diſcharge; fpare neither money nor en-
treaties. Take Fanny's letter along with you.
No breaſt, that is not abſolutely void of all ſen-
timents of humanity, can read it without emo.
tion. In ſhort, whatever money it may coſt,
whatever pleaſure of your own it may defer, be
ſure not to return without an entire diſcharge
for Claudius Anet. If you do, you may be al-
ſured, I ſhall never enjoy a ſingle moment's ſa-
tisfaction during the remainder of
my
life.
I am aware that your heart will be raiſing
many objections to the propoſal I have made ;
but can you think that I have not foreſeen all
thoſe objections? Yet, notwithſtanding, I repeat
my requeſt; for virtue muſt either be an empty
name, or it requires of us ſome mortifying ſelf-
denials, Our appointment, my friend, my
dear, dear friend, though loſt for the preſent,
may be made again and again. A few hours of
the

186
E LO IS A.

you ne-
the moſt agreeable intercouſe vaniſh like a flaſh
of lightening; but when the happineſs of an
honeſt couple is in your power, think, only think,
what you are preparing for hereafter, if
glect the opportunity: on the uſe, then, of the
preſent time depends an eternity of contentment
or remorfe. Forgive ſuch frequent repetitions;
they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have
ſaid more than was neceſſary to any honeſt man,
and an hundred times too much to my dear friend.
I well know how you abominate that cruel turn
of mind which hardens us to the calamities of
others. You yourſelf have told me a thouſand
times, that he is a wretch indeed who fcruples
giving up one day of pleaſure to the duties of
humanity.
LET TER XL.
FROM FANNY REGNARD TO ELOISA.

F
HONOURED MADAM,
ORGIVE this interruption, from a poor
girl in deſpair, who, being ignorant what
to do, has taken the liberty of addreſſing herſelf
to your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never
weary of comforting the afflicted, and I am fo
unfortunate, alas! that I have tired all but God
Almighty and you with my complaints. I am
very ſorry I was obliged to leave the miſtreſs you
had been ſo kind to put me apprentice to, but
on

E L O I SA.
187
on my mother's death (which happened this
winter) I was obliged to return home to my
poor father, who is confined to his bed with the
palſey.
I have never forgotten the advice you gave
my mother, to try to ſettle me with ſome honeft
man, who might be of uſe to the family. Claud
Anet (formerly in your father's ſervice) is a very
ſober diſcreet perſon, maſter of a good trade, and
has taken a liking to me. Having been already
so much indebted to your bounty, I did not
dare to apply to you for any further affiſtance,
ſo that he has been our only ſupport during the
whole winter. He was to have married me this
fpring, and indeed had ſet his heart upon it;
but I have been ſo teiſed for three years rent due
lait Eaſter, that, not knowing where to get ſo
much money, the young man liſted at once in
M. Merveilleux's company, and brought me all
the money he had received for inliſting. M.
Merveilleux ſtays at Neufchatel about a week
longer, and Claud Anet is to ſet out in three or
four days with the reſt of the recruits. So that
we have neither time nor money to marry, and
he is going to leave me without any help. If,
through your intereſt, or the Baron's, five or fix
weeks longer might be given us, we would en-
deavour in that time either to get married, or
repay the young man his money. But I am ſure
he can never be prevailed on to take the money
again.



I re-
288
E L O IS A.
I received this morning ſome great offers from
a very rich gentleman, but, thank God, I have
refuſed them. He told me, he would come again
to-morrow to know my mind; but I defired him
not to give himſelf ſo much trouble, and that he
knew it already. By God's affiftance, he ſhall
have the ſame anſwer to-morrow. I might in-
deed apply to the pariſh; but one is ſo deſpiſed
after that, that my misfortunes are better than
fuch a relief, and Claud Anet has too much
pride to think of me after this. Forgive the
liberty I have taken ; you are the only perſon I
could think of, and I feel myſelf ſo diftreffed,
that I can write no more about it,

I am,
Honoured Madam,
Your humble Servant to command,
FANNY REGNARD.
L ET TER XLI.
I
ANSWER.
Have been wanting in point of memory, and
you, Fanny, have been déficient in your con-
fidence in me; in ſhort, we have both of us
been to blame, but I am the moſt inexcuſable.
However, I ſhall now endeavour to repair the
injury which my neglect may have occafioned.
Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to ſatisfy your
mare

E LO IS A.
189
more immediate wants, and will be with you
again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman ſhould
return. My coufin and I propoſe calling on
you in the evening; for I know you cannot leave
your poor father alone; and indeed I ſhall be
glad of this opportunity, to inſpect your co-
nomy a little.
You need not be uneaſy on Claud Anet's ac-
count: my father is from home, but we ſhall
do all we can towards his immediate releaſe. Be
aſſured, that I will never forget you, nor your
generous lover. Adieu, my dear, and may God
ever bleſs you. I think you much in the right
for not having recourſe to publick charity. Such
ſteps as thoſe are never to be taken, while the
hearts and purſes of benevolent individuals are
open and acceſſible.
LET TER XLII.
TO ELOISA.
Have received your letter, and ſhall ſet out
this inſtant. - This is all the anſwer I ſhall
make. O Eloiſa! how could you cruelly fup-
poſe me pofſeffed of ſuch a ſelfiſh, unfeelingheart?
But you command, and ſhall be obeyed. I
would rather die a thouſand times than forfeit

your eſteem,
LETTER
190
E LO I S A.
LE T T E R XLIII.
TO ELOISA.

Arrived at Neufchatel yeſterday morning,
and on enquiry was told that M. Merveil-
leux was juſt gone into the country. I followed
him immediately, but as he was out a hunting
all day, I was obliged to wait till the evening,
before I could ſpeak with him. I told him the
cauſe of my journey, and deſired he would ſet
a price on Claud Anet's diſcharge; to which he
raiſed a number of objections. I then concluded
that the moſt effectual method of anſwering
them, would be to increaſe my offers, which I
did in 'proportion as his difficulties multiplied.
But, finding, after ſome time, that I was not
likely to ſucceed, I took my leave, having pre-
viouſly defired the liberty to wait on him the next
morning; determined in my own mind not to
fir out of the houſe a fecond time till I had ob-
tained my requeſt by dint of larger offers, fre-
quent importunity, or in ſhort by whatever means
I could think moſt effectual. I roſe early next
morning to put this reſolution in practiſe, and
was juſt going to mount my horſe, when I re-
ceived a note from M. Merveilleux with the
young man's diſcharge, in due form and order.
The contents of the note were thefe :



“ ENCLOSED, Sir, is the diſcharge you
« requeſt. I denied it to your pecuniary offers,
buthave granted it in conſideration of your cha-
5
" ritable

E LO IS A.
191
16 ritable deſign, and deſire you would not think
't that I am to be bribed into a good action."
You will eaſily conceive, by your own ſatis-
faction, what joy I muſt have felt. But, why is
it not as complete as it ought to be? I cannot
poſlībly avoid going to thank, and indeed to re-
imburſe M. Merveilleux; and if this vifit, ne-
ceſſary as it is, ſhould retard my return a whole
day, as I am apprehenſive it will, is he not ge-
nerous at my expenſe? But, no matter : I have
done my duty to Eloiſa, and am fatisfied. Oh!
what a happineſs it is thus to reconcile benevo-
lence to love! to unite in the ſame action the
charms of conſcious virtue with the ſoft ſenſa-
tions of the tendereft affection. I own freely,
Eloiſa, that I began my journey full of forrow
and impatience: I even dared to reproach you
with feeling too much the calamities of others,
while you remained in ſenſible to my ſufferings,
as if I alone, of all created beings, had been un-
worthy your compaſſion. I thought it quite
barbarous in you, after having diſappointed me
my ſweeteſt hopes, thus unneceſſarily and
wantonly, as it were, to deprive me of a hap-
pineſs which you had voluntarily promiſed. As
theſe ſecret repinings are now happily changed
into a fund of contentment and ſolid ſatisfaction,
to which I have hitherto lived a ſtranger, I have
already enjoyed the recompenſe you bade me ex-
pect: you ſpoke from experience. Oh! what
an amazing kind of empire is your's, which can


of
convert
192
E L O I S A.
convert even diſappointment into pleaſure, and
cauſe the ſame fatisfaction in obeying you, as
could reſult from the greateſt ſelf-gratification !
O my deareſt, kindeſt Eloiſa, you are indeed
an angel ; if any thing could be wanting to con-
firm the truth of this, your unbounded empire
over my ſoul would be a ſufficient confirmation.
Doubtleſs it partakes much more of the divine
nature, than of the human; and who can reſiſt
the power of heaven ? And to what purpoſe
ſhould I ceaſe to love you, ſince you
remain the object of my adoration ?
P. S. According to my calculation we ſhall
have five or fix days to ourſelves before your
mother returns. Will it be impoſſible for you,
during this interval, to undertake a pilgrimage to
the dairy-houſe?

muſt ever

LET TER XLIV.
canola His
FROM ELOISA.

RE
EPINE not, my dear friend, at this un-
expected return. It is really more advan-
tageous to us than you can poſſibly imagine ;
and, indeed, ſuppoſing our contrivances could
have effected what our regard to appearance has
induced us to give up, we ſhould have ſucceeded
no better. Judge what would have been the
conſequence, had we followed our inclinations.
I ſhould have gone into the country but the
very evening before my mother's return, Thould
4
have

E LO I SA.
193
have been ſent for thence, before I could have
poflibly given you any notice, and muſt confe-
quently have left you in the moſt dreadful anxi-
ety; we ſhould have parted, juft on the eve
of our imaginary bliſs, and the diſappointment
would have been cruelly aggravated by the near
approach of our felicity. Befides, notwith-
ſtanding the utmoſt precautions we could have
taken, it would have been known that we were
both in the country; perhaps, too, they might
have heard that we were together; it would have
been ſuſpected at leaſt, and that were enough.
An imprudent avidity of the preſent moment,
would have deprived us of every future reſource,
and the remorſe for having neglected ſuch an act
of benevolence would have imbittered the re-
mainder of our lives.
Compare, then, I beſeech you, our preſent
ſituation with that I have been deſcribing. Firſt,
your abfence has been productive of ſeveral good
effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mo-
ther, that you have been but ſeldom at my cou-
fin's. She is acquainted with the motives of
your journey; this may probably prove a means
of raiſing you in her eſteem, and how, think you,
can they conceive it poſſible that two young
people who have an affection for each other
ſhould agree to ſeparate at the very time they
are left moſt at liberty? What an artifice have
we employed to deſtroy ſuſpicions which are
but too well founded! The only ſtratagem in
my opinion conſiſtent with honour, is the carry-
VOL. I.
I
ing


E LO I S A.
ing our diferetion to ſuch an incredible height
that what is in reality the utmoſt effort of ſelf-
denial, may be mistaken for a token of indif-
ference. How delightful, my dear friend, muſt
a paflion thus concealed be to thoſe who enjoy it!
Add to this the pleaſing conſciouſneſs of having
united two deſpairing lovers, and contributed to
the happineſs of ſo deſerving a couple. You
have ſeen my Fanny: tell me, is not fhe a
charming girl? does the not really deſerve every
thing you have done for her? Is not fhe too
beautiful and too unfortunate to remain long un-
married, without ſome diſaſter? And do you
think that Claud Anet; whoſe natural good diſ-
poſition has miraculouſly preſerved him during
three years ſervice, could have reſolution to conti-
nue three years more without becoming as perfi-
dious and as wretched as all thofe of that profef-
fion? Inſtead of that they love, and will be united;
they are poor, and will be relieved; they are
honeſt, and will be enabled to continue ſo! for
my father has promiſed them a competent pro-
viſion. What a number of advantages then has
your kindneſs procured to them, and to our-
ſelves; not to mention the additional obligations
you have conferred on me! Such, my friend,
are the certain effects of facrifices to virtue;
which, though they are difficult to perform, are
always grateful in rememberance. No one ever
repented of having performed a good action.
I ſuppoſe, you will fay, with my conſtant couſin,
that all this is mere preaching, and indeed it is
but

E LO IS A.
195
it, my
but too true that I no more practiſe what I
preach than thoſe who are preachers by profeſſion.
However, if my diſcourſes are not ſo elegant,
I have the ſatisfaction to find that they are not
ſo entirely thrown away as their’s. I do not deny
dear friend, that I would willingly add
as many virtues to your character, as a fatal in-
dulgence to love has taken away from mine;
and Eloiſa herſelf having forfeited my regard,
I would gladly eſteem her in you. Perfect af-
fection is all that is required on your part, and
the conſequence will flow eaſy and natural. With
what pleaſure ought you to reflect, that you are
continually increaſing thoſe obligations, which
love itſelf engages to pay!
My couſin has been made privy to the conver-
ſation you had with her father, about Mr. Orbe,
and ſeems to think herſelf as much indebted to
you, as if we had never been obliged to her in
our lives. Gracious heaven, how every parti-
cular incident contributes to my happineſs! How
dearly am I beloved, and how am I charmed
with their affection! Father, mother, friend, and .
lover, all conſpire in their tender concern for my
happineſs, and, notwithſtanding my eager en-
deavours to requite them, I am always either
prevented or outdone. It ſhould feem, as if all
the tendereſt feelings in nature verged towards
my heart, whilft I, alas! have but one ſenſation
to enjoy them.
I forgot to mention a viſit you are to receive
to-morrow morning. 'Tis from Lord B-, lately
I 2
come


196
E L I S A.
come from Geneva, where he has reſided about
eight months: he told me he had ſeen you at
Sion, in his return from Italy. He found you
very melancholy, but ſpeaks of you in general
in the manner you yourſelf would wiſh, and in
which I have long thought. He commended you
ſo a-propos to my father yeſterday, that he has
prejudiced me already very much in his favour:
and indeed his converſation is ſenſible, lively,
and ſpirited. In reciting heroick actions, he
raiſes his voice, and his eyes ſparkle, as men
uſually do who are capable of performing the
deeds they relate. He ſpeaks alſo emphatically
in matters of taſte, eſpecially of the Italian
mufick, which he extols to the very ſkies. He
often reminded me of my poor brother. But
his lordſhip ſeems not to have ſacrificed much
to the Graces; his diſcourſe in general is rather
nervous than elegant, and even his underſtand-
ing ſeems to want a little poliſhing:

LET TER XLV.

TO
ELOISA.
IW
Was reading your laſt letter, the ſecond time
only, when Lord B-came in. But, as
I have ſo many other things to ſay, how can I
think of his lordſhip? When two people are
entirely delighted and ſatisfied with each other,
what need is there of a third perſon? However,
fince you ſeem to defire it, I will tell you what
I know

E LO IS A.
197
I know of him. Having paſſed the Semplon,
he came to Sion, to wait for a chaiſe which was
to come froin Geneva to Brigue; and as want
of employment often makes men ſeek fociety,
we foon became acquainted, and as intimate
as the reſerve of an Engliſhman, and my natural
love of retirement, would permit. Yet we foon
perceived, that we were adapted to each other;
there is a certain union of ſouls which is eaſily
difcernable. At the end of eight days, we were
full as familiar as we ever were afterwards,
and as two Frenchmen would have been in the
fame number of hours. He entertained me with
an account of his travels; and knowing he was
an Engliſhman, I immediately concluded he
would have talked of nothing but pictures or
buildings. But I was ſoon pleaſed to find, that
his attention to the politer arts had not made him
neglect the ſtudy of men and manners: yet
whatever he ſaid on thoſe ſubjects of refinement
was judicious, and in taſte, but with modeſty
and diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his
opinions ſeemed rather founded on reflexion
than ſcience, and that he judged from effects,
rather than rules, which confirmed me in my
idea of his excellent underſtanding. He ſpoke
to me of the Italian muſick with as much enthu-
fiaſm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a ſpe-
cimen of it; his valet plays extremely well
on the violin, and he himſelf tolerably on the
violoncello. He picked out what he called ſome
very affecting pieces, but whether it was by
I 3
being

198
E LO IS A.
not.
being unuſed to it, or that muſick, which is ſo
foothing in melancholy, loſes all its ſoft charms
when our grief is extreme, I muſt own I was not
much delighted; the melody was agreeable, but
wild, and without the leaſt expreſſion.
Lord B-was very anxious to know my
ſituation. I accordingly told him as much as
was neceſſary for him to know. He made an
offer of taking me with him into England, and
propoſed ſeveral advantages, which were no in-
ducements to me in a country where Eloiſa was
He had formerly told me that he intended
to paſs the winter at Geneva, the ſummer at Lau-
ſanne, and that he would come to Vevai before
he returned into Italy.
Lord B- is of a lively, haſty temper, but
virtuous and fteady. He piques himſelf on
being a philoſopher, and upon thoſe principles
which we have frequently diſcuſſed. But I really
believe his own diſpoſition leads him naturally
to that which he imagines the effect of method
and ſtudy, and that the varniſh of ſtoiciſm, with
which he gloſſes over all his actions, only covers
the inclinations of his heart.
I do not know what want of poliſh you have
found in his manner; it is really not very en-
gaging, and yet I cannot ſay there is any thing
diſguſting in it. Though his addreſs is not ſo
eaſy and open as his diſpoſition, and he ſeems to
deſpiſe the trifling punctilios of ceremony, yet
his behaviour in the main is very agreeable :
though he has not that reſerved and cautious
politeneſs,


E LO IS A.
199
politeneſs, which confines itſelf alone to mere
outward form, and which our young officers
learn in France, yet he is leſs follicitous about
diſtinguiſhing men and their reſpective ſituations
at firſt fight, than he is afliduous in paying a
proper degree of reſpect to every one in general,
Shall I tell you the plain truth? Want of ele-
gance is a failing which women never overlook,
and I fear that, in this inſtance, Eloiſa has been
a woman for once in her life.
Since I am now upon a ſyſtem of plain-deal-
ing, give me leave to aſſure you, my pretty
preacher, that it is to no purpoſe that you en-
deavour to invalidate my pretenſions, and that
ſermons are but poor food for a famiſhed lover.
Think, think of all the compenſations you have
promiſed, and which indeed are my due ; but
though every thing you have ſaid is exceeding
juſt and true, one viſit to the dairy-houſe would
have been a thouſand times more agreeable.
LE T T E R XLVI.
FROM ELOISA.
7 HAT, my friend, ſtill the dairy-houſe?!
Surely this dairy-houſe fits heavy on your
heart. Well, coſt what it will, I find you muſt
be humoured. But, is it poſſible you can be fo
attached to a place you never ſaw, that no other
will ſatisfy you? Do you think that love, who
raiſed Armida's palace in the midſt of a deſert,
cannot give us a dairy-houſe in the town? Fanny
I 4
is
200
E L O I SA.
is going to be married, and my father, who has
no objection to a little parade and mirth, is re-
folved it ſhall be a publick wedding. You may
be ſure there will be no want of noiſe and tu-
mult, which may not prove unfavourable to a
private converſation. You underſtand me. Do
not you think it will be charming to find the
pleaſures we have denied ourſelves in the effect
of our benevolence ?
Your zeal to apologize for Lord B--- was
unneceſſary, as I was never inclined to think ill
of him. Indeed, how ſhould I judge of a man,
with whom I ſpent only one afternoon? or how
can you have been ſufficiently acquainted with
him in the ſpace of a few days ? I ſpoke only
from conjecture ; nor do I ſuppoſe that you can
argue on any better foundation : his propoſals to
you are of that vague kind of which ſtrangers
are frequently laviſh, from their being eaſily
eluded, and becauſe they give them an air of
conſequence. But your character of his lord-
ſhip is another proof of our natural vivacity,
and of that eaſe with which you are prejudiced
for or againſt people at firſt fight. Nevertheleſs,
we will think of his propoſals more at leiſure.
If love ſhould favour my project, perhaps fome-
thing better may offer. O, my dear friend,
patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are
moſt delightfully ſweet.
To return to our Engliſhman : I told you, he
appeared to have a truely great and intrepid foul;
but that he was rather fenfible than agreeable.


You

E L O IS A.
201
You ſeem almoſt of the fame opinion, and then,
with that air of maſculine fuperiority, always
viſible in our humble admirers, you reproach
me with being a woman once in any life; as if
a woman ought ever to belie her ſex.
Have you forgot our diſpute, when we were
reading your Republick of Plato, about the moral
diftinction between the fexes? I have ſtill the
ſame difficulty to fuppoſe there can be but one
common model of perfection for two beings fo
eſſentially different. Attack and defenſe, the
affurance of the men, and inodeſty of the women,
are by no means effects of the fame cauſe, as the
philoſophers have imagined; but natural inſtitu-
tions which may be eaſily accounted for, and from
which may be deduced every other moral diſtinc-
tion. Beſides, the deſigns of nature being dif-
ferent in each, their inclinations, their percep-
tions ought neceſſarily to be directed according
to their different views : to till the ground, and
to nouriſh children, require very oppoſite taſtes
and conſtitutions. A higher ſtature, ſtronger
voice and features, ſeem, indeed, to be no indir-
penſible marks of diſtinction ; but this external
difference evidently indicates the intention of
the Creator in the modification of the mind.
The ſoul of a perfect woman and a perfect man
ought to be no more alike than their faces. All
our vain imitations of your fex are abſurd; they
expoſe us to the ridicule of ſenſible men, and
diſcourage the tender paſſions we were made to
inſpire. In ſhort, unleſs we are near fix feet
high


I 5
202
E LO IS A.
high, have a baſe voice, and a beard upon our
chins, we have no buſineſs to pretend to be
men.
What novices are you lovers in the art of
reproaching! You accuſe me of a fault which
I have not committed, or of which, however,
you are as frequently guilty as myſelf; and you
attribute it to a defect of which I am proud.
But, in return for your plain dealing, fuffer me to
give you my plain and ſincere opinion of your
fincerity. Why, then, it appears to be a refine-
ment of flattery, calculated, under the diſguiſe
of an apparent freedom of expreſſion, to juſtify
to yourſelf the enthufiaftick praiſes, which, upon
every occaſion, you are fo liberally pleaſed to be-
ftow on me. You are ſo blinded by my imaginary
perfections, that, you can diſcover no real ones
to excuſe your prepoffeffion in my favour.
Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified
to tell me my faults.
faults. Do you
think the
eyes
of
love, piercing as they are, can diſcover imper-
fections ? No, it is a power which belongs only
to honeſt friendſhip, and in that your pupil Clara
is much your fuperior. Yes, my dear friend,
you ſhall praiſe me, admire me, and think me
charming, and beautiful, and ſpotleſs. Your praiſes
pleaſe without deceiving me; I know it to be
the language of error, and not of deceit; that
you deceive yourſelf, but have no deſign to de-
ceive me. O, how delightful are the illuſions
of love! and ſurely all its flattery is truth ; for
the heart ſpeaks, though the judgement is filent.


5
The

E L 0 I SA.
203
The lover who praiſes in us that which we do
not poſſeſs, repreſents our qualities truely as they
appear to him; he ſpeaks a falſity without being
guilty of a lie; he is a flatterer without mean-
neſs, and one may eſteem without believing
him.
I have heard, not without ſome little palpi-
tation, a propoſal to invite two philoſophers
to-morrow to ſupper. One is my Lord B---
and the other a certain ſage, whoſe gravity hath.
ſometimes been a little diſcompoſed at the feet
of a young diſciple. Do you know the man?.
If you do, pray, defire that he will to-morrow
preſerve the philoſophick decorum a little better
than uſual. I ſhall take care to order the young
damfel to caſt her eyes downward, and to appear.
in his as little engaging as poſſible.
L E T T E R XLVII.
TO ELOISA..
ALICIOUS girl! Is this the circumſpec-
tion you promiſed? Is it thus you ſpare my
heart, and draw a veil over your charms ? How
often did you break your engagements ! Firſt,
as to your dreſs; for you were in an undreſs,
though you well know that you are never more
bewitching. Secondly, that modeſt air and
ſweetneſs in your manner, fo calculated for the
gradual diſplay of all your graces. Your con-
verſation more refined, more ſtudied, more witty
1. 6
than
204
E L O IS A.
than uſual, which made every one ſo uncom-
monly attentive, that they ſeemed impatiently
to anticipate every ſentence you fpoke. That
delightful air you ſung below your uſual pitch,
which rendered your voice more enchantingly
ſoft, and which made your ſong, though French,
pleaſe even Lord B- Your down-caft eyes,
and your timid glances, which pierced me to the
ſoul; in a word, that inexpreſſible enchantment
which ſeemed ſpread over your whole perſon, to
turn the brains of the company, even without
the leaſt apparent deſign. For my part, I know
not how to behave; but, if this is the method
you take to be as little engaging as poſſible, I al-
ſure you, however, it is being infinitely too
much ſo for people to retain their ſenſes in your
coinpany:
I doubt much whether the poor Engliſh phi.
loſopher has not perceived a little of the ſame
influence After we had conducted
home, ſeeing us all in high ſpirits, he propoſed
that we ſhould retire to his lodgings, and have a
little muſick, and a bowl of punch. While his
fervants were aſſembling, he never ceafed talking
of you; but with ſo much warmth, that, I con-
fefs, I ſhould not hear his praiſe from your lips
with as much pleaſure as you did from mine.
Upon the whole, I am not fond of hearing any
body ſpeak of you, except your couſin. Every
word ſeems to deprive me of a part of my fe-
cret, or my pleaſure, and whatever they ſay
appears ſo ſuſpicious, or is ſo infinitely fhort of
what

your couſin



E L I S A.
205
what I feel, that I would hear no diſcourſe upon
the ſubject but my own.
It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined
to jealouſy: no, I am better acquainted with
the ſoul of my Eloiſa ; and I have certain ſure-
ties that exclude even the poſſibility of your in-
conſtancy. After your proteſtations, I have no-
thing more to ſay concerning your other pre-
tenders; but this Lord, Eloiſaequality of
rank your father's prepoffeffion -In ſhort,
you know my life is depending. For Heaven's
fake, deign to give me a line or two upon this
fubject--one ſingle word from Eloiſa, and I ſhall
be ſatisfied for ever.
I paſſed the night in attending to, and play-
ing, Italian muſick; for there were ſome duets,
and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet
tell
you
what effect it had on me; but, I fear,
I fear, the impreſſion of laſt night's fupper in-
fuenced the harmony, and that I miſtook the
effect of your enchantment for the power of
muſick. Why ſhould not the ſame cauſe which
made it diſagreeable at Sion, give it a contrary
effect in a contrary ſituation? Are not you the
ſource of every affection of my foul, and am I
proof againſt the power of your magick ? If it
had really been the muſick which produced the
enchantment, every one preſent muſt have been
affected in the ſame manner; but whilſt I was
all rapture and extaſy, Mr. Orbe fat ſnoring in
an arm chair, and, when I awoke him with
my exclamations, all the praiſe he beſtowed
was,


206
E LO IS A.
was, to aſk whether your couſin underſtood
Italian.
All this will be better explained to-morrow;
for we are to have another concert this evening.
His lordſhip is determined to have it complete,
and has ſent to Lauſanne for a ſecond violin,
who, he ſays, is a tolerable hand. On my part,
I ſhall carry fome French ſcenes and cantatas.
When I firſt returned to my room I ſunk into
my chair, quite exhauſted and overcome; for
want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no
ſooner took my pen to write to you, than I
found myſelf gradually recover.
Yet I muſt
endeavour to ſleep a few hours, Come with me,
my ſweet friend, and do not leave me whilft I
fumber : but, whether thy image brings me pain
or pleaſure, whether it reminds me, or not, of
Fanny's wedding, it cannot deprive me of that
delightful moment, when I ſhall awake and re-
collect
my felicity.
LETTER
XLVIII.
TO ELOISA.
Ah
H! my Eloiſa! how have I been enter-
tained! What melting ſounds! what mu-
fick! Oʻdelightful ſource of ſenſibility and plea-
fure! Loſe not a moment; collect your operas,
your cantatas, in a word, all your French muſick!
then make a very hot fire, and caſt the wretched
ftuff into the fames; be ſure you ſtir it well,
that

E LO I S A.
207
that, cold as it is, it may once at leaſt fend forth a
little warmth. Make this facrifice to the God of
taſte, to expiate our mutual crime, in having
profaned your voice with ſuch doleful pſalmody,
and ſo long miſtaken a noiſe that ſtunned our
ears for the pathetick language of the heart.
How entirely your worthy brother was in the
right! and in what unaccountable ignorance
have I lived, concerning the productions of that
charming art! It gave me but little pleaſure, and,
therefore, I thought it naturally impotent. Mu-
fick, I ſaid, is a vain ſound, that only flatters
the ear, and makes little or no impreffion upon
the mind. The effect of harmonick ſounds is en-
tirely mechanical or phyſical, and what have
theſe to do with ſentiment? Why ſhould I expect
to be moved with muſical chords more than with
a proper agreement of colours ? But I never
perceived, in the accents of melody applied to
thoſe of language, the ſecret but powerful uni-
fon between muſick and the paſſions, I had no
idea that the ſame ſenſations which modulate
the voice of an orator, gives the finger a ftill
greater power over our hearts, and that the ener-
getick expreſſion of his own feelings is the ſym-
pathetick cauſe of all our emotion.
This leffon I was taught by his lordſhip’s
Italian ſinger, who, for a muſician, talks pretty
fenfibly of his own art. 66 Harmony (ſays he) is
nothing more than a remote acceffory in imita-
tive muſick; for, properly ſpeaking, there is not
in harmony the leaſt principle of imitation. In-
deed,

208
E L OIS A.
deed, it regulates the tones, confirms their
propriety, and renders the modulation more di-
ftinet; it adds force to the expreſſion, and grace
to the air. But from melody alone proceeds
that invincible power of pathetick accents over-
the foul. Let there be performed the moſt ju-
dicious fucceffion of chords, without the addi-
tion of melody, and you would be tired in leſs
than a quarter of an hour, whilſt, on the con-
trary, a ſingle voice, without the aſſiſtance of
harmony, will continue to pleaſe a conſiderable
time. An air, be it ever ſo ſimple, if there
be any thing of the true pathos in the compo-
ſition, becomes immediately intereſting; but, on
the contrary, melody without expreſſion will
have no effect; and harmony alone can never
touch the heart.
“ In this (continued he) conſiſts the errour of
the French with regard to the power of muſick.
As they can have no peculiar melody in a language
void of muſical accent, nor in their uniform and
unnatural poetry, they have no idea of any other
effect than that of harmony and a loud voice,
which, inſtead of foftening the tones, renders
them more intolerably noiſy: nay, they are even
ſo unfortunate in their pretenſions, that they
fuffer the very harmony they expect to eſcape
them; for, in order to render it more complete,
they facrifice all choice, they no longer diſtin-
guiſh the powers and effects of particular tones,
their compoſitions are overcharged, they have
ſpoilt their ears, and are become inſenſible to

every

E LO I SA.
209
every thing but noiſe: ſo that, in their opinion,
the fineſt voice is that which roars the loudeſt.
Having no original ſtyle or taſte of their own,
they have always followed us heavily, and at a
great diſtance, and ſince their, or rather our
Lulli, who imitated the operas which were then
common in Italy, we have beheld them, thirty
or forty years behind us, copying, mutilat-
ing, and ſpoiling our ancient compofitions, juſt
as other nations do by their faſhions. When-
ever they boaſt of their chanſons, they pronounce
their own condemnation; for if they could ex-
preſs the paſſions, they would not ſet wit to mu-
fick: but becauſe their muſick is entirely inca-
pable of any expreſſion, it is better adapted to
chanſons than operas, and our's is more fit for
the latter, becauſe it is extremely pathetick.”
He then repeated a few Italian ſcenes with-
out ſinging, made me fenſible of the harmony
between the muſick and the words in the recita-
tive, between the ſentiment and the muſick in
the airs, and in general the energy which was
added to the expreſſion by the exact meaſure,
and the proper choice of chords. In ſhort,
after joining to my knowledge of the Italian the
moſt perfect idea in my power of the oratorical
and pathetick emphafis, namely, the art of ſpeak-
ing to the ear and to the heart in an inarticulate
language, I fat down, and gave my whole at-
tention to this enchanting muſick, and, by the
emotions I felt, foon perceived that there is a
power in the art infinitely beyond what I
imagined.
Gok

210
E L I S A.
me.
imagined. It is impoffible to deſcribe the vo-
luptuous ſenſation which imperceptibly ſtole upon
It was net an unmeaning ſucceſſion of
ſounds, as in our muſical recitals. Every phraſe
impreſſed my brain with ſome new image, or con-
veyed a freſh ſenſation to my heart. The plea-
fure did not ſtop at the ear; it penetrated my
ſoul. The performance, without any extraor-
dinary effort, ſeemed to flow with charming
facility; and the performers appeared to be all
animated by one foul. The finger, who was
quite maſter of his voice, expreſſed, with eaſe,
all that the muſick and the words required. Upon
the whole, I was extremely happy to find my-
ſelf relieved from thoſe heavy cadences, thoſe
terrible efforts of the voice, that continual com-
bat between the air and the meaſure, which in
our muſick ſo feldom agree, and which is not leſs
fatiguing to the audience than the muſician.
But when, after a ſucceſſion of agreeable airs,
they ſtruck into thoſe grand pieces of expreſſion,
which as they paint, excite the more violent paſ-
fions, I every moment loſt the idea of mufick,
ſong, imitation; and imagined I heard the real
voice of grief, rage, deſpair. Sometimes me-
thought I ſaw a weeping diſconſolate mother,
a lover betrayed, a furious tyrant, and the ſym-
pathy was frequently ſo powerful that I could
hardly keep my ſeat. I was thus affected, be-
cauſe I now fully conceived the ideas of the com-
poſer, and therefore his judicious combination of
ſounds acted upon me with all its force. No,
Eloiſa,

E L O IS A.
211
Eloiſa, it is impoſſible to feel thoſe impreſſions
by halves; they are exceſſive or not at all, one
is either entirely inſenſible, or raiſed to an immo-
derate degree of enthuſiaſm: either it is an un-
intelligible noiſe, or an impetuoſity of ſenſation
that hurries you along, and which the foul can-
not poſſibly reſiſt.
Yet I had one cauſe of regret throughout the
whole: it was, that ány other than my Eloiſa
ſhould form ſounds that were capable of giving
me pleaſure, and to hear the moſt tender ex-
preſſions of love from the mouth of a wretched
eunuch. O, my lovely Eloiſa! can there be any
kind of fenfibility that belongs not to us? Who
is there that can feel and expreſs better than we,
all that can poflibly be expreſſed or felt by a ſoul
melting into love and tenderneſs? Where are
thoſe who in ſofter and more pathetick accents
could pronounce the Cor mio, the Idolo amato ?
Ah! what energy would our hearts add to the
expreſſion, if together we ſhould ever fing one
of thoſe charming duets which draw fuch deli-
cious tears from one's eyes! I conjure you to
taſte this Italian muſick as ſoon as poſſible, either
at home or with your coufin. Lord B-- will
order his people to attend when and where you
fhall think proper. With your exquiſite fen-
fibility, and more knowledge than I have of the
Italian declamation, one fingle eſſay will raiſe
you to a degree of enthufiaſm at leaſt equal to
mine. Let me alſo perſuade you to take a few
leſſons of this virtuoſo: I have begun with him
this
212
E LO IS A.
this morning.
His manner of inſtruction is
fimple, clear, and conſiſts more in example than
precept. I already perceive that the principal
requiſite is to feel and mark the time, to obſerve
the proper emphaſis, and inſtead of ſwelling every
note, to ſuſtain an equality of tone; in ſhort, to
refine the voice from all that French bellowing,
that it may become more juft, expreſſive, and
flexible. Your's, which is naturally ſo ſoft and
ſweet, will be eaſily reformed, and your ſenſibility
will foon inſtruct you in that vivacity and ex-
preſſion, which is the foul of Italian muſick.
E'I cantar che nellº animo fi ſente.
The ſong that's to the ſoul ſo ſweet.
Leave, then, for ever leave, that tedious and
lamentable French ſing-ſong, which bears more
reſemblance to the cries of the cholick than the
tranſports of the paſſions; and learn to breathe
thoſe divine ſounds inſpired by ſenſation, which
only are worthy of your voice, worthy of your
heart, and which never fail to charm and fire the
foul.


L ET TER XLIX.
You know
FROM. ELOISA.
OU know, my dear friend, that I write to
you by ſtealth, and in continual apprehen-
fion of a ſurpriſe. Therefore, as it is impoſſi-
ble for me to write long letters, I muſt confine
myſelf to thoſe parts of your’s which more eſpe-

cially

EL O I SA.
cially require anſwering, or to ſupply what was
left unſaid in our converſations, which, alas! are
no leſs clandeſtine than our interchange of let-
ters: at leaſt, I ſhall obſerve this method to-day :
your mentioning Lord B- will make me
neglect the reſt.
And ſo you are afraid to loſe me, yet you talk
to me of ſinging! ſurely, this was ſufficient cauſe
for a quarrel between two people who were leſs
acquainted. No, no, you are not jealous, it is
evident: nor, indeed, will I be fo; for I have
dived into your heart, and perceive that which
another might miſtake for indifference, to be abſo-
lute confidence. O! what a charming ſecurity
is that which ſprings from the ſenſibility of a
perfect union! Hence it is, I know, that from
your own heart you derive your good opinion
of mine; and hence it is you are ſo entirely
juſtified, that I ſhould doubt your affection, if
you were more alarmed.
I neither know nor care whether Lord B-
other regard for me than all men have for
girls of my age. But of what conſequence are
his ſentiments of the matter? Mine and my fa-
ther's are the only proper ſubjects of enquiry;
and theſe are both the ſame as they were with
regard to the two pretended pretenders, of whom
you ſay you will ſay nothing. If his excluſion
and their’s will add to your repoſe, reſt ſatisfied.
How much foever we might think ourſelves ho.
noured in the addreſſes of a man of his lordſhip’s
rank, never, with her own or her father's con-
ſent,

has any



214
È LO IS A.
ſent, would Eloiſa Etange become Lady B--
Of this you may be very certain: not that you
are hence to conclude that he was ever thought
of in that light. I am poſitive you are the firſt
perſon who ſuppoſed that he has the leaſt incli-
nation for me. But, be that as it will, I know
my father's ſentiments as well as if he had al-
ready declared them. Surely, this is ſufficient
to calm your fears; at leaſt it is as much as it
concerns you to know. The reſt is matter of
mere curioſity, and you know I have reſolved
that it ſhall not be ſatisfied. You may reproach
me as you pleaſe with reſerve, and pretend that
our concerns and our intereſt are the ſame: if I
had always been reſerved, it would now have been
leſs important. Had it not been for my indiſ-
cretion, in repeating to you ſome of my father's
words, you would never have retired to Meil-
lerie, you would never have written the letter
which was the cauſe of my ruin: I ſhould ſtill
have poſſeſſed my innocence, and might yet have
aſpired to happineſs. Judge, then, by my ſuffer-
ings for one indiſcretion, how I ought to dread
the commiſſion of another! You are too violent
to have any prudence. You could with leſs dif-
ficulty conquer your paſſions than diſguiſe them.
The leaſt fufpicion would ſet you raving, and the
moſt trivial circumſtances would confirm all your
fufpicions. Our ſecrets would be legible in your
face, and your impetuous zeal would fruſtrate
all my hopes. Leave, therefore, to me the cares
of love, and do you preſerve its pleaſures only.
You

E LO IS A.
Yous ſurely, have no reaſon to complain of this
divifion : acquieſce, and be convinced that all
you can poſſibly contribute to the advancement
of our felicity, is, not to interrupt it.
But, alas! what avail my precautions now?
Is it for me to be cautious how I ftep, who am
already fallen headlong down the precipice, or
to prevent the evils with which I am already op-
preſſed? Ah! wretched girl! is it for thee to
talk of felicity ? Was ever happineſs compatible
with ſhame and remorſe? Cruel, cruel fate!
neither to be able to bear nor to repent
of
my
crime; to be beſet by a thouſand terrours,
deluded by a thouſand hopes, and not even to
enjoy the horrible tranquillity of deſpair. The
queſtion is not now of virtue and reſolution, but
of fortitude and prudence. My preſent buſineſs is
not to extinguiſh a flame which ought never to
expire, but to render it innocent, or to die guilty.
Conſider my ſituation, my friend, and then ſee
whether you dare depend upon my zeal.
L E T T ER L.
FROM ELOISA.
I
Refuſed to explain to you, before we parted
yeſterday, the cauſe of that uneaſineſs you
remarked in me, becauſe you were not in a con-
dition to bear reproof. In ſpite, however, of
my averſion to explanations, I think I ought to
do it now, to acquit myſelf of the promiſe I
then made you.
I know
216
E L I S A.
ten.
and me.
I know not whether you may remember
your laſt night's unaccountable diſcourſe and
behaviour; for my part, I ſhall remember them
too long for your honour or my repoſe; indeed,
they have hurt me too much to be eaſily forgot-
Similar expreſſions have ſometimes reached
my ears from the ſtreet; but I never thought
they could come from the lips of any worthy
man. Of this, however, I am certain, there are
no ſuch in the lover's dictionary, and nothing
was farther from my thoughts than that they
ſhould ever paſs between you
Good
heaven! what kind of love muſt your's be, thus
to ſeaſon its delights! It is true, you were
fluſhed with wine, and I perceive how much one
muſt overlook in a country where ſuch exceſs
is permitted. It is for this reaſon I ſpeak to you
on the ſubject; for you may be aſſured that, had
you treated me in the ſame manner when per-
fectly fober, it ſhould have been the laſt oppor
tunity you ſhould ever have had.
But what alarms me moſt on your account is,
that the conduct of men in liquor is often no
other than the image of what paſſes in their
hearts at other times. Shall I believe that, in
a condition which diſguiſes nothing, you difco-
vered yourſelf to be what you really are?
What will become of me if you think this morn-
ing as you did laſt night? Sooner than be
liable to ſuch inſults, I had rather extinguiſh ſo
groſs a paſſion, and loſe for ever a lover who,

fo

E LO IS A.
217
fo ignorant how to reſpect his miſtreſs, deſerves
ſo little of her eſteem.
Is it poflible, that you who delight in vir-
tuous ſentiments ſhould have fallen into that
eruel errour, and have adopted the notion, that
a lover once made happy need no longer pay any
regard to decorum, and that thofe have no title
to reſpect whoſe cruelty is no longer to be feared.
Alas! had you always thought thus, your power
would have been leſs dreadful, and I ſhould have
been leſs unhappy. But miitake not, my friend;
nothing is ſo pernicious to true lovers as the pre-
judices of the world; ſo many talk of love, and
fo few know what it is, that moſt people miſtake
its pure and gentle laws for the vile maxims of
an abject commerce, which, foon ſatiated, has
recourſe to the monſters of imagination, and,
in order to ſupport itſelf, finks into depra-
vity.
Poſlibly, I may be miſtaken; but it ſeems
to me that true love is the chafteſt of all hu-
man connexions; and that its facred flame
ſhould purify our natural inclinations, by con-
centring them in one object. It is love that fe-
cures us from temptation, and inakes the whole
ſex indifferent, except the beloved individual.
To a woman indifferent to love, every man
is the ſame, and all are men; but to her whoſe
heart is truely fuſceptible of that refined paſſion,
there is no other man in the world but her lover.
What do I ſay? Is a lover no more than a man?
He is a being far ſuperiour! There exiſts not
VOL. I.
K

a man
218
E L OIS A.
a man in the creation with her who truely loves :
her lover is more, and all others are leſs; they
live for each other, and are the only beings of
their ſpecies. They have no deſires ; they love.
The heart is not led by, but leads the ſenſes,
and throws over their errours the veil of delight.
There is nothing obſcene but in lewdneſs and
its groſs language. Real love, always modeſt,
ſeiſes not impudently its favours, but ſteals
them with timidity. Secreſy, filence, and a
timorous baſhfulneſs heighten and conceal its
delicious tranſports; its fame purifies all its
careſſes, while decency and chaſtity attend even
its moſt ſenſual pleaſures. It is love alone that
knows how to gratify the defires without treſ-
pafling on modeſty. Tell me, you who once
knew what true pleaſures were, how can a
cynick impudence be conſiſtent with their en-
joyment? Will it not deprive that enjoyment
of all its ſweetneſs ? Will it not deface that.
image of perfection which repreſents the beloved
object? Believe me, my friend, lewdneſs and
love can never dwell together they are incom--
patible. On the heart depends the true happi-
nefs of thoſe who love; and where love is ab-
ſent, nothing can ſupply its place.
But, ſuppoſing you were fo unhappy as to
be pleaſed with ſuch immodeſt diſcourſe, how
could you prevail on yourſelf to make uſe of
it ſo indiſcretely, and addreſs her who was ſo
dear to you, in a manner of which a virtuous
man ought certainly to be ignorant ? Since
4
when
E L O IS A.
219
when is it become delightful to afflict the object
one loves ? and how barbarous is that pleaſure
which delights in tormenting others? I have
not forgotten that I have forfeited the right I
had to be reſpected: but if ever I ſhould forget
it, is it you that ought to remind me of it!
Does it belong to the authour of my crime to
aggravate my puniſhment ? Ought he not rather
to adminiſter comfort? All the world may
have reaſon to deſpiſe me, but you have none.
It is to you I owe the mortifying ſituation to
which I am reduced ; and ſurely the tears I have
thed for my weakneſs call upon you to alleviate
my ſorrow,
I am neither nice not prudiſh.
Alas! I am but too far from it; I have not
been even diſcrete. You know too well, un-
grateful as you are, that my ſuſceptible heart
can refuſe nothing to love. But, whatever I
may yield to love, I will make no conceſſions
to any thing leſs; and you have inſtructed me
too well in its language to be able to ſubſtitute
one fo different in its room. No terms of abuſe,
nor even blows, could have inſulted me more
than fuch demonſtrations of kindneſs. Either
renounce Eloiſa, or continue to merit her
eſteem. I have already told you I know no
love without modeſty; and, how much foever
it may coſt me to give up your's, it will coſt
me ſtill more to keep it at ſo dear a price.
I have yet much to ſay on this ſubject, but
I muſt here cloſe my letter, and defer it to
another opportunity. In the mean time, pray
binon
obferve


K 2
220
Ε Ι Ο Ι S Α.
obſerve one effect of your miſtaken maxims re-
garding the immoderate uſe of wine. I am
your heart is not to blame; but
you have deeply wounded mine ; and, without
knowing what you did, afflicted a mind too
eaſily alarmed, and to which nothing is in-
different that comes from you. 2
very ſenſible
LETTER LI.
TO ELOISA.
THE
THERE is not a line in your letter that
does not chill the blood in my veins; and
I can hardly be perſuaded, after twenty times
reading, that it is addreſſed to me. Who, I?
Can I have offended Eloiſa ? Can I have pro-
faned her beauties? Can the idol of my ſoul,
to whom every moment of my life I offer up my
adorations--can ſhe have been the object of my
inſults ? No, I would have pierced this heart a
thouſand times, before it ſhould have formed ſo
barbarous a deſign. Alas! you know but little
of his heart, that flies to proftrate itſelf at your
feet--a heart anxious to contrive for thee a new
fpecies of homage, unknown to human beings.
Ah ! my Eloiſa, you know that heart but little,
if you accuſe it of wanting towards you the
ordinary reſpect which even a common lover en-
tertains for his miſtreſs.--Is it poſſible I can
have been impudent and brutal? I, who deteſt
the language of immodeſty, and never in my
life entered into places where it is held! But that
I ſhould



1

E L OIS A.
22
I ſhould repeat ſuch diſcourſe to you ; that I
Ihould
aggravate your juft indignation! Had I
been the inoſt abandoned of men, had I ſpent
my youth in riot and debauchery, had even a
taſte for ſenſual and ſhameful pleaſures found a
place in the heart where your reſide, tell me,
Eloiſa, my angel, tell me, how was it pollible
I could have betrayed before you that impu-
dence, which no one can have but in the pre-
fence of thoſe who are themſelves abandoned
enough to approve it. Ah, 110 ! it is impoſſible.
One look of your's had ſealed my lips, and cor-
rected my heart. Love would have veiled my
impetuous defires beneath the charms of your
modeſty; while in the ſweet union of our ſouls
their own delirium only would have led the
ſenſes aſtray. I appeal to your own teſtimony,
if ever, in the utmoſt extravagance of an un-
bounded paflion, I ceaſed to revere its charming
object. If I received the reward of my love,
did I ever take an advantage of my happineſs,
to do violence to your baſhfulneſs? If the
trembling hand of an ardent but timid lover hath
ſometimes preſumed too far, did he ever with
brutal temerity profane you charms? If ever an
indiſcrete tranſport drew aſide their veil, though
but for a moment, was not that of modefty as
ſoon ſubſtituted in its place? Unalterable as
the chaſtity of your mind, the flame that glows
in mine can never change. Is not the affecting
and tender union of our fouls fufficient to con-
ftitute our happineſs? Does not in this alone
confift



K 3

232
E LOIS A.
confiſt all the happineſs of our lives? Have we
a wish to know or taſte of any other? And
canſt thou conceive this enchantment can be
broken? How was it poſſible for me to forget
in a moment all regard to chaſtity, to our love,
my honour, and that invincible reverence and
reſpect which you muſt always inſpire, even in
thoſe by whom you are not adored ? No; I can-
not believe it. It was not I that offended you. I
have not the leaſt remembrance of it; and, were
I but one inftant culpable, can it be that my re-
morſe ſhould ever leave me? No, Eloiſa, fome
demon, envious of happineſs too great for a
mortal, has taken upon him my form, to deſtroy
my felicity.
Nevertheleſs, I abjure, I deteſt a crime which
I muſt have committed, ſince you are my ac-
cuſer, bui in which my will had no part. How
do I begin to abhor that fatal intemperance,
which once ſeemed to me favourable to the
effuſions of the heart, and which has fo cruelly
deceived mine! I have bound myſelf, therefore,
by a folemn and irrevocable vow, to renounce
wine from this day as a mortał poiſon. Never
fhall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, be-
reave me of my ſenſes, or involve me in guilt to
which my heart is a ſtranger. If I ever break
this folemn vow, may the powers of love inflict
on me the puniſhment I deſerve ! May the image
of Eloiſa that inſtant forſake my heart, and
abandon it for ever to indifference and deſpair.

But,

E L O IS A.
223
But, think not I mean to expiate my crime
by fo flight a mortification. This is a precau-
tion, and not a puniſhment. It is from you
I expect that which I deſerve; nay, I beg it of
you, to conſole my affliction. Let offended love
avenge itſelf, and be appeaſed : puniſh without
hating me, and I will ſuffer without murmur-
ing. Be juſt and fevere; it is neceſſary, and I
muſt ſubmit; but if you
would not deprive me
of life, you muſt not deprive me of your
heart.
L E T T ER LII.
FROM ELOISA.
WHAT! my friend renounce his bottle
for his miſtreſs ! This is, indeed, a ſa-
crifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the
four cantons more deeply in love than yourſelf.
Not but there may be found ſome young frenchi-
fied petit-maitres among us that drink water
through affectation ; but you are the firſt Swiſs
that ever love made a water-drinker, and ought
to ſtand as an example for ever in the lover's
chronicle of your country, I have even been
informed of your abſtinent behaviour, and have
been much edified to hear that, being to ſup
laſt night with M. de Vueillerans, you ſaw fix
bottles go round after ſupper, without touching
a drop; and that you ſpared your water as
little as your companions did their wine. This
ſtate of ſelf-denial and penitence, however,
muſt

K 4
224
I
E LO I S A.
muſt have laſted already three days, and in three
days you muſt have abſtained from wine at leaſt
for fix meals. Now, to the abſtinence for fix
meals, obſerved through fidelity, may be added ſix
others through fear, fix through ſhame, fix through
habit, and fix more through obſtinacy. How
many motives might be found to prolong this
mortifying abftinence, of which love alone will
have all the credit? But can love condeſcend
to pride itſelf in a merit to which it hath no juſt
pretenſions ?
This idle raillery may poſſibly be as diſagree-
able to you, as your talk the other night was
to me : it is time, therefore, to ſtop its career.
You are naturally of a ſerious turn, and I have
perceived ere now that a tedious ſcene of triling
hath heated you as much as a long walk uſually
does a fat man; but I take nearly the ſame ven-
geance of you as Henry the Fourth took of the
Duke of Maine : your ſovereign alſo will imitate
the clemency of that beſt of kings. In like
manner, I am afraid left, by virtue of your
contrition and excuſes, you ſhould in the end
make a merit of a fault ſo fully repaired; I
will, therefore, forget it immediately, left, by
deferring my forgiveneſs too long, it ſhould be-
come rather an act of ingratitude than genero-
ſity.
With regard to your reſolution of renouncing
your bottle for ever, it has not ſo much weight
with me as perhaps you may imagine; ſtrong
paſſions think nothing of theſe triling ſacrifices,
and





Ε L ΟΙ S Α.
225
and love will not be ſatisfied with gallantry.
There is beſides more of addreſs ſometimes than
reſolution, in making for the preſent montent an
advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reap-
ing beforehand the credit of an eternal abftin
nence, which may be renounced at pleaſure,
But, my good friend, is the abuſe of every
thing that is agreeable to the ſenſes inſeparable
from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenneſs ne-
ceſſarily attached to the taſte of wine? and is
philoſophy ſo cruel, or ſo uſeleſs, as to offer no
other expedient to prevent the immoderate uſe
of agreeable things, than that of giving them up
entirely ?
If you keep true to your engagement, you de-
prive yourſelf of an innocent pleaſure, and en-
danger your health in changing your manner of
living : on the other hand, if you break it, you
commit a double offenſe againſt love; and even
your honour will ſtand impeached. I will make
uſe, therefore, on this occaſion of my privi-
lege; and do not only releaſe you from the ob-
ſervance of a vow, which is null and void, as
being made without my conſent; but do abſo.
lutely forbid you to obſerve it beyond the term
I am going to preſcribe. On Thurſday next
is to give us a concert. At
the collation I will ſend you a cup, about half
full of a pure and wholeſome nectar; which it
is my will and pleaſure that you drink off in my
preſence, after having made, in a few drops,
an expiatory libation to the Graces. My peni-

my Lord B
K 5
tent
226
E LO IS A.
tent is permitted afterwards to return to the
ſober uſe of wine, tempered with the chryſtal
of the fountain ; or as your honeſt Plutarch has
it, moderating the ardours of Bacchus, by a
communication with the nymphs.
But to our concert on Tueſday: that blun-
derer Regianino has got it into his head that I
am already able to fing an Italian air, and even
a duo with him. He is deſirous that I ſhould
try it with you, in order to ſhow off his two
ſcholars together; but there are certain tender
paſſages in it dangerous to fing before a mother,
when the heart is of the party : it would be
better, therefore, to defer this tryal of our ſkill
to the firſt concert we have at our couſin's. I
attribute the facility with which I have ac-
quired a taſte for the Italian muſic to that which
my brother gave me for their poetry : and for
which I have been ſo well prepared by you, that
I perceive eaſily the cadence of the verſe : and,
if I may believe Regianino, have already a to-
lerable notion of the true accent. I now begin
every leffon by reading fome paſſages of Taſſo,
or ſome ſcene of Metaſtatio; after this, he
makes me repeat and accompany the recitative,
ſo that I feem to continue reading or ſpeaking
all the while ; which I am pretty certain could
never be the caſe in the French mufick. After
this I practiſe, in regular time, the expreffion of
true and equal tones; an exerciſe which the
noiſe I had been accuſtomed to rendered diffi-
cult enough. At length we paſs on to the air,
wherein


E LOT SA
227
pre-
wherein he demonſtrates that the juſtneſs and
flexibility of the voice, the pathetick expreſſion,
the force and beauty of every part, are naturally
affected by the ſweetneſs of the melody and
ciſion of the meaſure; infomuch that what ap-
peared at firſt the moſt difficult to learn need
hardly be taught me. The nature of the mufick
is ſo well adapted to the ſound of the language,
and of fo refined a modulation, that one need
only hear the baſs, and know how to ſpeak, to
decypher the melody. In the Italian muſick all
the paſſions have diſtinct and ſtrong expreſſions :
directly contrary to the drawling, diſagreeable
tones of the French, it is always ſweet and
eaſy, and at the ſame time lively and affecting;
its ſmalleſt efforts produce the greateſt effe&ts.
In ſhort, I find that this mufick elevates the
foul, without tearing the lungs, which is juſt
the muſick I want. On Tueſday then, my
dear friend, my preceptor, my penitent, my
apoſtle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah,
why ſhould there be only one title wanting!
P. S.-Do you know there is ſome talk of
ſuch another agreeable party on the water, as
we made two years ago, in company with poor
Challiot? How modeſt was then my
ſubtle
ceptor! How he trembled when he handed me
out of the boat! Ah, the hypocrite! How
greatly changed is he!
pre-

K 6
L E T T ER
228
E LO IS A.
L E T T ER LIII.
FROM ELOISA.
TH
HUS every thing conſpires to diſconcert
,
hopes, every thing betrays a paffion which hea-
ven ought to fanctify! And are we always to
be the ſport of fortune, the unhappy victims of
delufive expectation! Shall we ſtill pant in pur-
ſuit of pleaſure, without ever attaining it? Thoſe
nuptials, which were ſo impatiently expected,
were firſt to have been celebrated at Clarens ;
but the bad weather oppoſed it, and the cere-
mony was performed in town: however, we had
ſtill ſome hours of a private interview; but we
were ſo cloſely beſet by officious importunity,
that it was impoſſible for us both to eſcape at the
fanie inſtant. At laſt a favourable opportunity
offers, but we are again diſappointed by the
cruelleft of mothers, and that which ought to
have been the moment of our felicity went near
to have proved our deſtruction. Nevertheleſs,
I am ſo far from being diſmayed by theſe num-
berleſs obſtacles, that they ſerve but to in-
flame
my reſolution. I know not by what new
powers I am animated, but I feel an intrepidity
of foul to which I have been hitherto igno-
rant; and if you are inſpired with the ſame fpi-
rit, this evening, this very evening, I will per-
form my promiſes, and diſcharge at once all the
obligations of love.

Weigh
E L O IS A.
229
Weigh this affair maturely, and conſider well
at what rate you eſtimate your life; for the ex-
pedient I am going to propoſe may probably
lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no
farther ; but if thy heart ſhrinks no more at the
point of a ſword than formerly at the precipice of
Meillerie, mine ſhares the danger, and heſitates
no longer. Be attentive!
Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has
been ill theſe three days, and though I offered
to attend her, ſhe is removed in ſpite of me:
but as ſhe is now ſomewhat better, poſſibly to-
morrow ſhe may return.
may return. The ſtairs which lead
to my mother's apartment and mine are at ſome
diſtance from the room were they ſup, and, at
that hour, the reſt of the houſe, except the
kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkneſs
of the night will then favour your progreſs
through the ſtreets without the leaſt riſk of be-
ing obſerved, and you are not unacquainted with
the houſe.
I believe I have ſaid enough to be underſtood.
Come this afternoon to Fanny's; I will there
explain the reſt, and give the neceſſary inſtruc-
tions: but if that ſhould be impoſſible, you will
find them in writing, in the old place, to which
I conſign this letter. The ſubject is too im-
portant to be truſted with any perſon living.
O! I ſee the violent palpitation of your heart!
How I feel your tranſports! No, no, my charm-
ing friend, we will not quit this ſhort exiſtence
without having taſted happineſs. Yet, remem-
ber

È LOIS A.
ber that the fatal moment is environed with the
horrours of death! That the way to bliſs is ex-
tremely hazardous, its duration full of perils,
and your retreat beyond meaſure dangerous ;
that if we are diſcovered, we are inevitably
loft, and that to prevent it fortune muſt be
uncommonly indulgent. Let us not deceive
ourſelves : I know my father too well to doubt
that he would not inſtantly pierce your heart,
or that even I ſhould not be the firft victim to
his revenge; for certainly he would ſhow me no
mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would
lead you into dangers to which I myſelf were not
expoſed.
Remember, alſo, that you are not to have the
leaſt dependence on your courage ; it will not
bear a thought: I even charge you very expreſsly
to come entirely unarmed; fo that your intre-
pidity will avail you nothing. If we are ſur-
priſed, I am reſolved to throw myſelf into your
arms, to graſp you to my heart, and thus to re-
ceive the mortal blow, that they may part us no
more! fo fhall my exit be the happieſt moment
of my life.
Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us: we ſurely
deſerve it; and fortune muſt at laſt grow weary
of her injuſtice. Come, then, thou joy of my
heart, life of my life, come and be reunited to
thyſelf. Come, under the auſpices of love, and
receive the reward of thy obedience and thy fa-
crifices, O come and confeſs, even in the bo-
fom
E LO IS A.
231
fom of pleaſure, that from the union of hearts
proceed its greateſt delights.
LETTER LIV.
TO ELOISA.
AM
M I then arrived !--how my heart flut-
ters in entering this afylum of love!
Yes, Eloiſa, I am now in your cloſet: I am in
the ſanctuary of my foul's adored. The torch
of love lighted my ſteps, and I paſſed through
the houſe unperceived ---Delightful manſion !
happy place! once the ſcene of tenderneſs and
infant love ſuppreſſed! Theſe conſcious walls
have ſeen my growing, my ſucceſsful paſſion, and
will now a ſecond time behold it crowned with
bliſs : witneſs of my eternal conſtancy, be wit-
neſs alſo of my happineſs, and conceal for ever
the tranſports of the moſt faithful and moſt for-
tunate of men.
How charming is this place of concealment!
Every thing around me ſerves to inflame the
ardour of my paſſion. O Eloiſa, this delightful
ſpot is full of thee, and my deſires are kindled
by every footſtep of thine. Every fenfe is at
once intoxicated with imaginary bliſs. An al-
moſt imperceptible ſweetneſs, more exquiſite
than the fcent of the roſe, and more volatile than
that of the Iris, exhales from every part. I
fancy I hear the delightful found of your voice.
Every part of your ſcattered dreſs preſents to my
glowing


232
E E LO IS A.
glowing imagination the charms it has con-
cealed. That light head-dreſs, which is adorned
by thoſe bright locks it affects to hide ; that fimple
elegant deſhabille, which diſplays ſo well the taſte
of the wearer; thoſe pretty flippers, that fit ſo
eaſily on your little feet; theſe ſtays, which en-
circle and embrace your {lender--Heavens,
what a charming ſhape! how the top of the
ftomacher is waved in two gentle curves---
luxurious fight ! the whalebone has yielded to
their impreffion!--delicious impreſlion! let me
devour it with kiſſes !---O Gods ! how ſhall
I be able to bear ? - Ah! methinks I feel already
a tender heart beat ſoftly under my happy hand!
Eloiſa, my charming Eloiſa, I fee, I feel the at
every pore. We now breath the ſame air. How
thy delay inflames and torments me! My im-
patience is inſupportable. O, come, fly, Eloiſa,
fly to my arms, or I am undone! How fortu-
nate it was to find pen, ink, and paper! By ex-
preffing what I feel, I moderate my ecſtacy, and
give a turn to my tranſports, by attempting to
deſcribe them.
Ha! I hear a noiſe--Should it be her in-
human father! I do not think myſelf a cow-
ard_but death would terrify me juſt now.
My deſpair would be equal to the ardour which
conſumes me. Grant me, good heaven, but
one more hour to live, and I reſign the remain-
der of my life to thy utmoſt rigour. What im-
patience! what fears! what cruel palpitation !
Ah! the door opens! It is the ! it is Eloiſa! I
fee


E LO IS A.
233


ſee her enter the chamber and lock the door.
My heart, my feeble heart, ſinks under its agi-
tations, Let me recover myſelf, and gather
ſtrength to ſupport the bliſs that overwhelms
me.
LET TERLV.
TO ELOISA.
01
H! let us die, my ſweet friend! let us die,
thou beſt beloved of my heart! How fhall we
hereafter fupport an inſipid life, whoſe pleaſures
we have already exhauſted? Tell me, if thou
canít, what I experienced laſt night: give me an
idea of a whole life ſpent in the ſame manner,
orlet me quit an exiſtence which has nothing left
that can equal the pleaſures I have enjoyed.
I had taſted bliſs, and formed a conception of
happineſs. But, alas! I had only dreamt of
true pleaſure, and conceived only the happineſs
of a child! My ſenſes deceived my unrefined
heart; I fought fupreme delight in their gratifica-
tion; and I find that the end of ſenſual pleaſures
is but the beginning of mine. O, thou choice
maſter-piece of nature's works; divine Eloiſa !
to the ecſtatick poſſeſſion of whom all the tranf-
ports of the moſt ardent paſſion hardly fuffice !
Yet it is not thoſe tranſports I regret the moſt.
Ah! no: deny me, if it muſt be ſo, thoſe in-
toxicating favours, for the enjoyment of which,
nevertheleſs, I would die a thouſand deaths, but
reſtore me all the bliſs which does not depend on

them,
234
E L O IS A.
them, and it will abundantly exceed them. Re-
ſtore me that intimate connexion of ſouls, which
you firſt taught me to know, and have fo well
inſtructed me to taſte. Reſtore to me that de-
lightful languor, accompliſhed by the mutual
effufions of the heart. Reſtore to me that en-
chanting fluinber that lulled me in your breaſt !
Reſtore to me the yet more delicious moments
when I awoke ; thoſe interrupted fighs, thoſe
melting tears, thoſe kiſſes ſlowly, ſweetly im-
preſſed in voluptuous languiſhment; let me hear
thoſe ſoft, thoſe tender complaints, amidſt whoſe
gentle murmurs you preſſed ſo cloſe thoſe hearts
which were made for each other.
Tell me, Eloiſa, you, who ought from your
own ſenſibility to judge ſo well of mine, do you
think I ever taſted real love before? My feelings
are greatly changed ſince yeſterday; they ſeem
to have taken a leſs impetuous turn; but more
agreeable, more tender, and more delightful.
Do you remember that whole hour we ſpent, in
calmly taking over the circumſtances of our
love, and of the fearful conſequences of what
might happen hereafter, by which the preſent
moment was made the more intereſting? That
ſhort hour in which a flight apprehenſion of fu-
ture forrow rendered our converſation the more
affecting. I was tranquil, and yet was near my
Eloiſa. I adored her, but my deſires were
calm. I did not even think of any other feli-
city than to perceive your face cloſe to mine, to
feel your breath on my cheek, and your arm
about
E L O IS A.
235
about my neck. What a pleaſing tranquillity
prevailed over all my ſenſes ! How refined, how
laſting, how conſtant the delight! The mind
pofíeffed all the pleaſure of enjoyment, not mo-
mentary, but durable. What a difference is there
between the impetuous fallies of appetite, and a
ſituation ſo calm and delightful! It is the firſt
time I have experienced it in your prefence;
and judge of the extraordinary change it has
effected. That hour I ſhall ever think the hap-
pieſt of my life, as it is the only one which I
could wiſh ſhould have been prolonged to eter-
nity. Tell me, then, Eloiſa, did I not love you
before, or have I ceaſed to love you ſince?
If I ceaſe to love you! What a doubt is that!
Do I ceaſe to exiſt, or does not my life depend
more on the heart of Eloiſa than my own! I
feel, I feel you are a thouſand times more dear
to me than ever ; and I find myſelf enabled,
from the ſlumber of my deſires, to love you
more tenderly than before. My ſentiments, it
is true, are leſs paſſionate, but they are more
affectionate, and are of a different kind: with-
out loſing any thing of their force, they are
multiplied; the mildneſs of friendſhip moderates
the extravagance of love; and I can hardly con-
ceive any kind of attachment which does not
unite me to you. O, my charming miſtreſs!
my wife! my fifter ! my friend! By what name
fhall I expreſs what I feel, after having ex-
hauſted all thofe which are dear to the heart of
man
Let
236
E LO I SA.
Let me now confefs a ſuſpicion which, to my
ſhame and mortification, I have entertained;
it is that you are more capable of love than my.
ſelf. Yes, my Eloiſa, it is on you that my life,
my being depends : I revere you with all the
faculties of my ſoul; but your's contains more of
love. I ſee, I feel, that love hath penetrated
deeper into your heart than mine.
heart than mine. It is that
which animates your charms, which prevails in
your diſcourſe, which gives to your eyes that
penetrating ſweetneſs, to your voice ſuch mov-
ing accents: it is that which your preſence
alone imperceptibly communicates to the hearts
of others, the tender emotions of your own.
Alas! how far am I from ſuch an independent
ſtate of love! I ſeek the enjoyment, and you
the love, of the beloved object :--I am tranſport-
ed, and you enamoured: not all my tranſports
are equal to your languiſhing foftneſs; and it is
in ſuch ſenſations as your's only, that ſupreme
felicity conſiſts. It is but ſince yeſterday that
I have known ſuch refined pleaſure. You have
left me ſomething of that inconceivable charm
peculiar to yourſelf; and I am perſuaded that
your ſweet breath hath inſpired me with a new
ſoul. Haſte, then, I conjure you, to complete
the work you have begun. Take from me all
that remains of mine, and give me a ſoul en-
tirely your’s. No, angelick beauty, celeſtial
maid, no ſentiments but ſuch as your's can do
honour to your charms. You alone are worthy
to inſpire a perfect paſſion; you alone are ca-
pable


E LO IS A.
237
pable of feeling it. Ah! give me your heart,
my Eloiſa, that I may love you as you deſerve, .
L E T T E R LVI.
FROM CLARA TO ELOISA.
I
couſin, in which the will find herſelf a little
intereſted. Laſt night there happened an af-
fair between your friend and Lord B-- which
may poſſibly become ſerious. Thus it
Thus it was, as I
had it from Mr. Orbe, who was preſent, and
who gave me the following account this morn-
ing:-
Having ſupped with his lordſhip, and enter-
tained themſelves for a couple of hours with their
muſick, they ſat down to chat and drink punch.
Your friend drank only one ſingle glaſs mixed
with water, The other two were not quite ſo
fober; for though Mr. Orbe declares he was not
touched, I intend to give him my opinion of
that niatter ſome other time. You naturally.
became the ſubject of their converſation ; for
you know this Engliſhman can talk of nobody
elfe. Your friend, who did not much reliſh
his lordſhip's diſcourſe, ſeemed ſo little obliged
to him for his confidence, that at laſt my lord,
fluſhed with liquor, and piqued at the coldneſs
of his manner, dared to tell him, in complain-
ing of your indifference, that it was not ſo ge-
neral as might be imagined, and that thoſe who
were filent had leſs reaſon to complain. You
17
know

238
ELOISA.
know your friend's impetuofity: he inſtantly
took fire, repeated the words with great warmth
and inſult, which drew upon him the lie, and
they both flew to their ſwords. Lord B-,
who was half ſeas over, in running gave his
ancle a ſudden twiſt which obliged him to ſtagger
to a chair. His leg began immediately to ſwell,
and this more effectually appeaſed their wrath
than all Mr. Orbe's interpofition. But as he
continued attentive to what paſſed, he obſerved
your friend, in going out, approach his lordſhip,
and heard him whiſper : “ As ſoon as you are able to
walk, you will let me know it, or I ſhall take care
to inform myſelf."-"You need not give yourſelf
that trouble (faid the other, with a contemptuous
ſmile) you fhall know it time enough."-"We ſhall
fee,” returned your friend, and left the room.
Mr. Orbe, when he delivers this letter, will tell
you more particularly. It is your prudence that
muſt ſuggeſt the means of ſtilling this unlucky
affair. In the mean time, the bearer waits your
commands, and you may depend on his ſecrefy.
Pardon me, my dear, my friendſhip forces
me to ſpeak: I am terribly apprehenſive on your
Your attachment can never continue
long concealed in this ſmall town; it is indeed
a miraculous piece of good fortune, conſidering
it is now two years ſince it began, that you are
not already the publick talk of the place. But it
will very ſoon happen, if you are not extremely
cautious. I am convinced your character would
long ſince have ſuffered, if you had been leſs ge-
nerally





account.
E LO I SA.
239


nerally beloved; but the people are ſo univerſally
prejudiced in your favour, that no one dares to
ſpeak ill of
you, for fear of being diſcredited and
deſpiſed. Nevertheleſs, every thing muſt have an
end; and much I fear that your myſtery draws
near its period. I have great reaſon to apprehend
that Lord B-'s ſuſpicions proceed from ſome
diſagreeable tales he has heard. Let me intreat
you to think ſeriouſly of this affair. The
watchman has been heard to ſay, that, ſome
time ago, he ſaw your friend come out of your
houſe at five o'clock in the morning. Fortunate-
ly he himſelf had early intelligence of this report,
and found means to ſilence the fellow; but what
fignifies ſuch filence? It will ſerve only to con-
firm the reports that will be privately whiſpered
to all the world. Beſides, your mother's fuf-
picions are daily increaſing. You remember her
frequent hints. She has ſeveral times ſpoke to
me in ſuch ſerious terms, that if ſhe did not dread
the violence of your father's temper, I am cer-
tain ſhe would already have opened her mind to
him ; but ſhe is conſcious that the blame would
fall chiefly on herſelf.
It is impoſſible I fhould repeat it too often;
think of your ſafety before it be too late. Prevent
thoſe growing fufpicions which nothing but his
abſence can diſpel: and, indeed, to be fincere
with you, under what pretext can he be ſuppoſed
to continue here! Poflibly, in a few weeks more
his removal may be to no purpoſe.
be to no purpoſe. If the leaſt
circumſtance ſhould reach your father's ear you

will
240
É LO IS A.
will have cauſe to tremble at the indignation of
an old officer, ſo tenacious of the honour of his
family, and at the petulance of a violent youth,
But we muſt firſt endeavour to terminate the af-
fair with Lord B-, for it were in vain to at-
tempt to perſuade your friend to decamp, till
that is in ſome ſhape accompliſhed.

LETTER LVII.
FROM
ELOISA.
I
son
Have been informed, my friend, of what has
paſſed between you and my Lord B-; and
from a perfect knowledge of the fact, I have
a mind to diſcuſs the affair, and give you my
opinion of the conduct you ought to obſerve on
this occafion, agreeably to the ſentiments you
profeſs, and of which I ſuppoſe you do not
make only an idle parade.
I do not concern myſelf whether you are
ſkilled in fencing, nor whether you think your-
ſelf capable of contending with a man who is
famous all over Europe for his ſuperior dexterity
in that art, having fought five or fix times in his
life, and always killed, wounded, or diſarined
his man.
I know that in ſuch a caſe as your's,
people conſult not their ſkill, but their courage;
and that the faſhionable method to be revenged
of a man who has inſulted you, is to let him run
you through the body. But, let us paſs over
this wife maxim; you will tell me that your
honour

LOI S A.
241
honour and mine are dearer to you than life. This,
therefore, is the principle on which we muſt
reaſon.
To begin with what immediately concerns
yourſelf. Can you ever make it appear in what
reſpect you were perſonally offended by a con-
verſation that related ſolely to me? We ſhall
fee preſently whether you ought, on ſuch an oc-
caſion, to take my cauſe upon yourſelf: in the
mean time, you cannot but allow that the quar-
rel was quite foreign to your own honour in par-
ticular, unleſs you are to take the ſuſpicion of
being beloved by me as an affront. I muſt own
you have been inſulted; but then it was after
having begun the quarrel yourſelf by an atro-
cious affront; and, as I have had frequent op-
portunities, from the many military people in
our family, of hearing theſe horrible queſtions
debated, I am not to learn thatone outrage com-
mitted in return to another does not annul the
firſt, and that he who receives the firſt inſult is
the only perſon offended. It is the ſame in this
caſe, as in a rencounter, where the aggreffor is
only in fault: he who wounds or kills another
in his own defenſe, is not confidered as being
guilty of murther.
To come now to myſelf; we will agree that
I was inſulted by the converſation of my Lord
B-, although he ſaid no more of me than he
might juſtify. But do you know what you are
about in defending my cauſe with ſo much
warmth and indiſcretion? You aggravate his in-
VOL. I.
L
ſults
242
ELOIS A.
ſults; you prove that he was in the right; you ſaa
crifice my honour to the falſe punctilios of your's,
and defame your miſtreſs, to gain at moſt the
reputation of a good ſwords-man. Pray, tell me
what affinity there is between your manner of
juſtifying me and my real juſtification? Do you
think that to engage in my behalf with ſo much
heat is any great proof that there are no con-
nexions between us? And that it is ſufficient to
ſhow your courage, to convince the world you
are not my lover? Be aſſured, my Lord B-'s
infinuations are leſs injurious to me than your
conduct. It is you alone who take upon your-
felf, by this buſtle, to publiſh and confirm them.
He may, perhaps, turn afide the point of your
fword in the conflict; but neither my reputation,
nor perhaps my life, can be ſecured againſt the
fatal blow which your raſh duel will give them.
Theſe reaſons are too folid to admit of a re-
ply; but I foreſee you will oppoſe cuſtom to
reaſon ; you will tell me there is a fatality in
ſome things, which hurries us away in ſpite of
ourſelves: that a man is in no caſe whatever to
Luffer the lie to be given him ; and that, when
an affair is gone to a certain length, it is impof-
fible to avoid fighting or infamy. We will
examine into the validity of this argument.
Do not you remember a diſtincion you once
made, on a very important occaſion, between real
and apparent honour ? Under which of theſe
claſſes ſhall we rank that in queſtion ? For my
part, I cannot ſee that it will even admit of a
doubt

Ε Ι Ο Ι 8 Α.
243
doubt. What compariſon is there between the
glory of cutting another's throat, and the teſti-
mony of a good conſcience and of what import-
ance is the idle opinion of the world, ſet in
competition with true honour, whoſe foundation
is rooted in the heart? Can we be deprived of
virtues we really poſſeſs by falſe aſperſions of
calumny? Does the inſult of a drunken man
prove ſuch inſults deſerved? Or does the honour
of the virtuous and prudent lie at the mercy of the
firſt brute or blockhead he meets? Will you tell
me that fighting a duel ſhows a man to have cou-
rage,
and that this is ſufficient to efface the dif-
honour, and prevent the reproach due to all other
vices? I would aſk you, what kind of honour can
dictate ſuch a deciſion? Or what arguments juſ-
tify it? On ſuch principles a ſcoundrel need only
to fight, to become a man of probity: the aſſer-
tions of a liar become true when they are main-
tained at the point of the ſword; and, if you
were even accuſed of killing a man, you have
only to kill a ſecond, to prove the accuſation falſe.
Thus virtue, vice, honour, infamy, truth, and
falſehood, all derive their exiſtence from the
event of a duel: a fencing-ſchool is the only
court of juſtice; there is no other law than
violence, no other argument than murther: all
the reparation due to the inſulted, is to kill them ;
and every offenſe is equally waſhed away by the
blood of the offender or the offended. If wolves
themſelves could reaſon, would they entertain
maxims more inhuman than theſe? Judge your-
ſelf,


L 2
244
ELOIS A.
ſelf, from the ſituation you are in, whether I ex.
aggerate their abſurdity. What is it you reſent?
That the lie has been given you on an occaſion
wherein you actually aſſerted a falſehood. Do
you intend to deſtroy the truth, by killing him
you would puniſh for having told it? Do you
conſider that, in riſking the ſucceſs of a duel,
you call heaven to witneſs the truth of a lie, and
impiouſly bid the Supreme Diſpoſer of events
ſupport the cauſe of injuſtice, and give the tri-
umph to falſehood? Does not ſuch abſurdity
ſhock you? Does not ſuch impiety make you
ſhudder? Good God! what a wretched fenfe
of honour is that, which is leſs afraid of vice
than reproach; and will not permit that another
ſhould give us the lie, which our own hearts
had given us before?
Do you, who would have every one profit by
their reading, make uſe of your's: ſee if you can
find one inftance of a challenge being given,
when the world abounded with heroes? Did the
moſt valiant men of antiquity ever think of re-
venging private injuries by perſonal combat ?
Did Cæfar fend a challenge to Cato, or Pompey
to Cæſar, in conſequence of their many reciprocal
affronts? or was the greateſt warriour of Greece
diſgraced, becauſe he put up with the threats of
being cudgelled? Manners, I know, change
with the times; but are they all equally com-
mendable? Or is it unreaſonable to enquire
whether thoſe of any times are agreeable to the
dictates of true honour? This is not of a fickle



or
E LO I SA.
245
or changeable nature : true honour does not de-
pend on time, place, or prejudice; it can neither
be annihilated, nor generated anew; but has its
conſtant fource in the heart of the virtuous man,
and in the unalterable rules of his conduct. If
the moſt enlightened, the moft brave, the moſt
virtuous people upon earth had no duels, I will
venture to declare it not an inſtitution of honour,
but a horrid and ſavage cuſtom, worthy its bar-
barous origin. It remains for you to determine
whether, when his own life, or that of another,
is in queſtion, a man of real honour is to be go-
verned by the mode, or if it be not a greater in-
ftance of true courage to reſiſt the abſurd tyran-
ny of cuſtom, than tamely to ſubmit to it. What
would be your opinion of a man who ſhould re-
gulate his conduct by the mode, in places where
different cuſtoms are eſtabliſhed. At Meſfina or
Naples he would not challenge his man, but
wait for him at the corner of a ſtreet, and ſtab
him in the back. This is called bravery in thofe
countries, where honour conſiſts in killing your
enemy, and not in being killed by him yourſelf.
Beware, then, of confounding the facred name of
honour with that barbarous prejudice, which ſub-
jects every virtue to the deciſion of the fword,
and is only adapted to make men daring villains !
Will it be faid this cuſtom may be made uſe of as
a ſupplement to the rules of probity? Wherever
probity prevails is not ſuch a ſupplement uſelefs ?
And what thall be ſaid to the man who expoſes
his life in order to be exempted from being vir-
L 3
tuous !

.
246
E LO I SA.
tuous? Do you not ſee that the crimes, which
ſhame and a ſenſe of honour have not prevented,
are ſcreened and multiplied by a falſe ſhame,
and the rear of reproach? It is this fear which
makes men hypocrites and liars : it is this which
makes them embrue their hands in the blood of
their friends, for an idle word, which ought to
be forgotten, or for a merited reproach, which
they ought patiently to ſuffer. It is this which
transforms the abuſed and fearful maid into an
infernal fury: it is this which arms the hand of
the mother againſt the tender fruit of-I ſhud-
der at the horrible idea, and give thanks at leaſt
to that Being who fearcheth the heart, that he
hath baniſhed far from mine a ſenſe of that dia-
bolical honour, which inſpires nothing but
wickedneſs, and makes humanity tremble.
Look into yourſelf, therefore, and conſider
whether it be permitted you to make a deliberate
attempt on the life of a man, and expofe your's
to ſatisfy a barbarous and fatal notion, which
has no foundation in reaſon or nature. Conſider
whether the ſad reflexion of the blood ſpilt on
ſuch occafions can ceaſe to cry out for vengeance
on him who has ſpilt it. Do you know any
crime equal to wilful murther? If humanity alſo
be the baſis of every virtue, what muſt be
thought of the man whofe blood-thirſty and
depraved diſpoſition prompts him to ſeek the life
of his fellow-creature? Do you remember what
you have yourſelf ſaid to me, againſt entering
into foreign ſervice? Have you forgot that a good
citizen
Ε Ι Ο Ι S Α.
247
citizen owes his life to his country, and has not
a right to diſpoſe of it, without the permiſſion
of its laws, and much leſs in direct oppoſition
to them? O, my friend, if you have a fincere
regard for virtue, learn to purſue it in its own
way, and not in the ways of the world. I will
own ſome flight inconvenience may ariſe from it;
but is the word virtue no more to you than an
empty found ? and will you practiſe it only when
it coſts you no trouble? I will alk, however, in
what will ſuch inconvenience conſiſt? In the
whiſpers of a ſet of idle or wicked people, who
ſeek only to amuſe themſelves with the misfor --
tunes of others, and have always ſome new
tale to propagate. A pretty motive truely, to en-
gage men to cut each other's thr ats!
If the
philoſopher and man of ſenſe regulate their be-
haviour, on the moſt important occafions of life,
by the idle talk of the multitude, to what pur-
poſe is all their parade of ſtudy, when they are at
laſt no better than the vulgar? Dare you not
reſentment to duty, to eſteem, to
friendthip, for fear it ſhould be ſaid you are
afraid of death ? Weigh well theſe circum-
ſtances, my good friend, and I am convinced
you will find more cowardice in the fear of that
reproach than in the fear of death. The brag-
gard, the coward, would, at all hazards, paſs for
facrifice your
brave men,
Ma verace valor, ben che negletto,
E' di ſe ſteſo à se freggio afai chiaro
But real valour, howſoe’er neglected,
Is ſtill the ſame, and from affronts reſpected,
L 4
Не
248
E LOI S A.
He who affects to meet death without fear is
a liar. All men fear to die; it is a law with all
ſenſible beings, without which every ſpecies of
mortals would ſoon be deſtroyed. This fear is
the ſimple emotion of nature, and that not in
itſelf indifferent, butjuſt, and conformable to the
order of things. All that renders it ſhameful, or
blameable, is, that it may fometimes prevent us
from doing good, and the proper diſeharge of our
duty. If cowardice were no obſtacle to virtue it
would ceaſe to be a vice. Whoever is more
attached to life than to his duty, I own, cannot
be truely virtuous; but can you, who pique
yourſelf on acting rationally, explain to me what
ſort of merit there is in braving death in order to
be guilty of a crime?
But, taking it for granted that a man expofes
himfelf to contempt in refuſing a challenge;
which contempt is moſt to be feared, that of others
for doing right, or that of ourſelves for having
acted wrong? Believe me, he who has a proper
eſteem for himſelf, is little fenſible to the unjuſt
reproach caſt on him by others, and is only
afraid of deſerving it. Probity and virtue depend
not on the opinion of the world, but on the na-
ture of things; and though all mankind fhould
approve of the action you are about, it would
not be lefs ſhameful in itſelf. But it is a falſe no-
tion, that to refrain from it, through a virtuous
motive, would be bringing yourſelfinto contempt.
The virtuous man, whoſe whole life is irre-
proachable, and who never betrayed any marks
af
E LO ISPA.
249
of cowardice, will refuſe to ſtain his hands with
blood, and will be only the more reſpected for
ſuch refuſal. Always ready to ſerve his country,
to protect the weak, to diſcharge his duty on the
moſt dangerous occafions, and to defend, in every
juft and reaſonable cauſe, what is dear to him, at
the hazard of his life, he diſplays throughout the
whole of his conduct that unfhaken fortitude
which is inſeparable from true courage. Ani-
mated by the teſtimony of a good conſcience, he
appears undaunted, and neither flies from, nor
feeks his enemy. It is eaſily obſerved that he
fears leſs to die than to act bafely; that he dreads
the crime, but not the danger. If at any time the
mean prejudices of the world raiſe a clamour
againit him, the conduct of his whole life is his
teſtimony, and every action is approved by a
behaviour fo uniformly irreproachable.
But do you know what makes this modera-
tion fo painful to the generality of men? It is
the difficulty of ſupporting it with propriety.
It is the neceffity they lie under of never im-
peaching it by an unworthy action: for if the fear
of doing ill does not reſtrain men in one caſe,
why fhould it in another, where that reſtraint
may be atcributed to a more natural motive?
Hence, it is plain it does not proceed from virtue,
Duit cowardice; and it is with juftice that ſuch
fcruples are laughed at, as appear only in caſes of
danger. Have you not obſerved that perſons
captious, and ready to affront others, are, for
the moſt part, badi men, who, for fear of having
the


1 5
250 ELOISA.
the contempt in which they are univerſally held-
publickly expoſed, endeavour to ſcreen, by ſome
honourable quarrels, the infamy of their lives :
Is it for you to imitate ſuch wretches as theſe?
Let us ſet aſide men of a military profeſſion, who
ſell their blood for pay; and who, unwilling to
be degraded from their rank, calculate from their
intereſt what they owe to their honour, and
know to a fhilling the value of their lives. Let
us, my friend, leave theſe gentlemen to their fight-
ing. Nothing is leſs honourable than that ho-
nour about which they make ſuch a noiſe; and
which is nothing more than an abſurd cuſtom,
a falſe imitation of virtue, which prides itſelf in
the greateſt crimes. Your honour is not in the
power of another: it depends on yourſelf, and
not on the opinion of the world; its defenſe is
neither in the ſword nor the buckler, but in
life of integrity and virtue; a proof of greater
courage than to brave death in a duel.
On theſe principles you may reconcile the en-
comiums I have always beſtowed on true va-
lour, with the contempt I have as conſtantly
expreſſed for the baſe pretenders to courage.
admire men of ſpirit, and hate cowards; I
would break with a pufillanimous lover, who
ſhould betray the want of a proper reſolution in
caſes of danger, and think, with all the reſt of
my ſex, that the ardours of true courage heighten
thoſe of love. But I would have ſuch courage
exerted only on lawful occaſions, and not an
idle parade made of it, when it is unneceſſary,
as
E LO I SA.
251
as if there was ſome fear of not having it ready
when it ſhould be called for. There are cowards,
who will make one effort to exert their courage,
that they may have a pretence to avoid danger
the reſt of their lives. True fortitude is more
conſtant, and leſs impetuous; it is always what
it ought to be, and wants neither the ſpur nor
the rein: the man of real magnanimity carries
it always about him ; in fighting he exerts it
againſt his enemy, in company againſt calumny
and falſehood, and on a fick bed againſt the
attacks of pain, and the horrours of death. That
fortitude of mind which inſpires true courage is
always exerted; it places virtue out of the reach
of events, and does not conſiſt in braving danger,
but in not fearing it. Such, my friend, is the
merit of that courage I have often commended,
and which I would admire in you. All other
pretences to bravery are wild, extravagant, and
brutal; it is even cowardice to ſubmit to them;
and I deſpiſe as much the man who runs himſelf
into needleſs danger, as him who turns his back
on that which he ought to encounter.
If I am not much miſtaken, I have now made
it clear, that, in this your quarrel with Lord
B - your own honour is not at all concern-
ed; that you bring mine in queſtion by draw-
ing your ſword to avenge it; that ſuch conduct
is neither juſt, reaſonable, nor lawful; that it
by no means agrees with the ſentiments you
profeſs, but belongs only to bad men, who
make uſe of their courage as a ſupplement to
L 6
virtues
252
E LO IS A.
virtues they do not poſſeſs, or to officers that
fight not for honour but intereſt; that there is
more true courage in deſpiſing than adopting it;
that the inconveniences to which you expoſe
yourſelf by reje&ting it are infeparable from the
practice of your duty, and are more apparent
than real; in fine, that men who are the moſt
ready to recur to the ſword are always thoſe of
the moſt ſuſpicious characters. From all which
I conclude, that you cannot either give or ac-
cept a challenge on this occaſion, without giving
up at once the cauſe of reaſon, virtue, honour,
and Eloiſa. Canvaſs my arguments as you pleaſe,
heap ſophiſm on fophifm as you will, it will be
always found that a man of true courage is not
a coward, and that a man of virtue cannot be
without honour. And I think I have demon-
ſtrated as clearly, that a man of true courage
deſpiſes, and a man of virtue abhors duelling.
I thought proper, my friend, in ſo ſerious and
important an affair, to ſpeak to you only the
plain language of reafon, and to repreſent things
fimply as they are. If I would have deſcribed
them as they appear to me, and engaged the
paſſions and humanity in the cauſe, I ſhould have
addreffed you in a different ſtyle. You know
that my father had the misfortune, in his youth,
to kill his antagoniſt in a duel; that antagoniſt
was his friend, they fought with regret, but
were obliged to it by that abfurd notion of a
point of honour. That fatal blow which de-
prived the one of life, robbed the other of his
реа се
4

E LO IS A.
253
peace of mind for ever From that time has the
moſt cruel remorſe inceſſantly preyed on his heart :
he is often heard to figh and weep in private :
his imagination ftill repreſents to him the fatal
ſteel, thruſt by his cruel hand into the breaſt of the
man he loved: his ſlumbers are diſturbed by the
appearances of his pale and bleeding friend: he
looks with terrour on the mortal wound: he en-
deavours to ſtop the blood that flows from it:
he is feiſed with horrour, and cries out, Will
this corpſe never ceaſe purſuing me? It is
five years fince he loſt the only ſupport of his
name, and hope of his family; fince when, he
has reproached himſelf with his death, as a juſt
judgement from heaven, which avenged on him
the loſs of that unhappy father, whom he de-
prived of an only ſon.
I muſt confeſs that all this, added to my natural
averſion to cruelty, fills me with ſuch horrour at
duels, that I regard them as inſtances of the
loweſt degree of brutality into which mankind
can poſſibly deſcend. I look upon thoſe, who
go chearfully to a duel, in no other light than
as wild beaſts going to tear each other to pieces;
and, if there remains the leaſt ſentiment of hu-
manity within them, I think the murthered leſs
to be pitied than the murtherer. Obſerve thoſe
men who are accuſtomed to this horrid practice;
they only brave remorfe, by ſtiAing the voice of
nature; they grow by degrees cruel and infenfi-
ble; they ſport with the lives of others, and
their puniſhment for having turned a deaf ear
to
254
E L O I S A.
to humanity, is to loſe at length every ſenſe of it.
How ſhocking muſt be ſuch a ſituation? Is it
poſſible you can deſire to be like them? No, you
were never made for ſuch a ſtate of deteſtable
brutality: be careful of the firſt ſtep that leads
to it: your mind is yet undepraved and innocent:
begin not to debaſe it, at the hazard of your life,
by an attempt that has no virtue, a crime that
has no temptation, and a point of honour
founded only on abſurdity.
I have ſaid nothing to you of your Eloiſa; ſhe
will be a gainer no doubt, by leaving your heart
to ſpeak for her. One word, only one word,
and I leave her to you. You have ſometimes
honoured me with the endearing name of wife;
perhaps I ought at this time to bear that of mo-
ther. Will you leave me a widow before we are
legally united ?
P.S. I make uſe of an authority in this let-
ter which no prudent man ever reſiſted. If
you refuſe to ſubmit to it, I have nothing fur-
ther to ſay to you: but think of it well before-
hand. Take a week's time for reflexion, and to
meditate on this important ſubject. It is not for
any particular reaſon I demand this delay, but
for my own pleaſure. Remember, I make uſe
only on this occaſion of a right, which you your-
ſelf have given me over you, and which extends
at leaſt to what I now require.

LETTER
E L O IS A.
255
L E T T ER LVIII.
FROM ELOISA TO LORD B
if you
I Have no intention, in writing to your Lord-
ſhip, to accuſe or complain of you; fince
you are pleaſed to affront me, I muſt certainly
be the offender, though I may be ignorant of my
offenſe. Would any gentleman ſeek to difho-
nour a reputable family without a cauſe? Surely
no: therefore ſatisfy your revenge, if believe
it juſt. This letter will furniſh you with an
eaſy method of ruining an unhappy girl, who
can never forgive herſelf for having offended
you, and who commits to your diſcretion that
honour which you intend to blaft. Yes, my
Lord, your imputations were juft: I have a lover,
whom I fincerely love; my heart, my perſon,
are entirely his, and death only can diſſolve our
union. This lover is the very man whom you
honour with your friendſhip, and he deſerves it;
becauſe he loves you, and is virtuous. Never-
theleſs, he muſt periſh by your hand. Offended
honour, I know, can be appeaſed only by a
human facrifice. I know that his own courage
will prove his deſtruction. I am convinced, that
in a combat in which you have ſo little to fear
his intrepid heart will impatiently ruſh upon the
point of your ſword. I have endeavoured to re-
ſtrain his inconſiderate ardour, by the power of
reaſon; but, alas! even whilſtI was writing,
was conſcious of the inutility of my arguments :
What

256
E LO I SA.
What opinion foever I may have of his virtue,
I do not believe it ſo ſublime as to detach him
from a falſe point of honour. You may ſafely
anticipate the pleaſure you will have in piercing
the heart of your friend: but be aſſured, bar-
barous man, that you fhall never enjoy that of
being witneſs to my tears and my deſpair. No,
I ſwear by that ſacred flame which fills my
whole heart, that I will not ſurvive one ſingle
day the man for whom alone I breathe! Yes,
Sir, you will reap the glory of having, in one
inſtant, ſent to the grave two unhappy lovers,
whoſe offenſe was not intentional, and by whom
you were honoured and eſteemed.
I have heard, my lord, that you have a great
foul, and a feeling heart: if theſe will allow you
the peaceful enjoyment of your revenge, heaven
grant, when I am no more, that they may in-
ſpire you with ſome compaſſion for my poor dif-
confolate parents, whoſe grief for their only
child will endure for ever.
LETTER LIX.
I
FROM MR. ORBE TO ELOISA.
Seiſe the firſt moment, in obedience to your
commands, to render an account of my pro-
ceedings. I am this inſtant returned from my
viſit to Lord B-, who is not yet able to walk
without ſupport. I gave him your letter, which
he opened with impatience. He thowed ſome
emotion


E L I S A.
257
emotion while he was reading: he pauſed;
read it a ſecond time, and the agitation of his
mind was then more apparent. When he had
done, theſe were his words : " You know, Sir, that
affairs of honour have their fixed rules, which can-
not be diſpenſed with. You were
You were a witneſs to
what paſſed in this. It muſt be regularly deter-
mined. Chooſe two of your friends, and give your-
ſelf the trouble to return with them hither to-more
row morning, and you fall then know my refo-
lution.” I urged the impropriety of making others
acquainted with an affair which had happened
among ourſelves. To which he haſtily replied :
66 I know what ought to be done, and ſhall act properly.
Bring your two friends, or I have nothing to ſay to
you.” I then took my leave, and have ever
ſince racked my brain ineffeétually to penetrate
into his deſign. Be it as it will, I fall fee you
this evening, and to-morrow ſhall act as you
may advife. If you think proper that I ſhould
wait on his lord ſhip with my attendants, I will
take care to chooſe ſuch as may be depended on,
at all events.
LET TERLX.
L
ELOISA.
AY aſide your fears, ny gentle Eloiſa;
and, from the fo
has happened, know and partake of the ſenti-
ments of your friend.
I was ſo full of indignation when I received
your
258
E L I S A.
your letter, that I could hardly read it with the
attention it deſerved. I ſhould have made fine
work in attempting to refute it: I was then too
raſh and inconſiderate. You may be in the
right, faid I to myſelf, but I will never be per-
ſuaded to put upan affront injurious to my Eloiſa.
-Though I were to loſe you, and even die in a
wrong cauſe, I will never ſuffer any one to ſhow
you leſs reſpect than is your due: but whilft I
have life you ſhall be revered by all that approach
you, even as my own heart reveres you. I did
not heſitate, however, on the week's delay you
required : the accident which had happened to
Lord B-, and my vow of obedience, con-
curred in rendering it neceſſary. In the mean
time, being reſolved, agreeably to your com-
mands, to employ that interval in meditating on
the ſubject of your letter, I read it over again
and again, and am reflecting on it continually;
not with a view, however, to change my deſign,
but to juſtify it.
I had it in my hand this morning, peruſing
again, with ſome uneaſineſs of mind, thoſe too
fenfible and judicious arguments that made againſt
me, when ſomebody knocked at the door of my
chamber. It was opened, and immediately en-
tered Lord B----, without his ſword, lean-
ing on his cane; he was followed by three gen-
tlemen, one of whom I obſerved to be Mr.
Orbe. Surpriſed at fo unexpected a viſit, I
waited ſilently for the conſequence; when my
lord requeſted of me a moment's audience, and
begged
E L O I SA. 259
begged leave to ſay and do as he pleaſed with-
out interruption. “ You muſt (ſays he) give me
your expreſs permiſſion: the preſence of theſe
gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuſe
you from any ſuppoſed indiſcretion.” I promiſed
without heſitation not to interrupt him, when,
to my great aſtoniſhment, his lordſhip imme-
diately fell upon his knee. Surpriſed at ſeeing
him in ſuch an attitude, I would have raiſed him
up; but after putting me in mind of my
promiſe, he proceeded in the following words:
“ I am come, Sir, openly to retract the abuſe,
which, when in liquor, I uttered in your com-
pany. The injuſtice of ſuch behaviour renders
it more injurious to me than to you; and there-
fore I ought publickly to diſavow it. I ſubmit
to whatever puniſhment you pleaſe to inflict on
me, and ſhall not think my honour re-eſtabliſh-
ed, till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me
the pardon I aſk, on what conditions you think
fit, and reſtore me your friendſhip.”_"My lord
(returned I) I have the trueſt ſenſe of your ge-
neroſity and greatneſs of mind, and take a plea-
fure in diſtinguiſhing between the diſcourſe
which your heart dictates, and that which may
eſcape you when you are not yourſelf: let that
in queſtion be forever forgotten.” I immediately
raiſed him, and falling into my arms, he cor-
dially embraced me. Then turning about to the
company, 66 Gentlemen (faid he) I thank you
for your complaiſance. Men of honour, like
you (added he, with a bold air and reſolute tone
of
260
ELOISA.
of voice) know that he who thus repairs the in-
jury he has done will not ſubmit to receive an
injury from any man. You may publiſh what you
have ſeen.” He then invited all of us to fup with
him this evening, and the gentlemen left us. We
were no fooner alone, than his lordſhip embraced
me again, in a more tender and friendly manner;
then taking me by the hand and feating him-
felf down by me, “ Happy man (ſaid he) may
you long enjoy the felicity you deſerve the heart
of Eloiſa is your's, may you be both"_" What
do you mean, my lord? (ſaid I, interrupting
him :) have you loſt your
loſt your ſenſes?"-" No (re-
turned he, ſmiling) but I was very near loſing
them, and it had perhaps been all over with me,
if ſhe who took them away had not reſtored them.”
He then gave me a letter that I was furpriſed to
ſee written by a hand, which never before wrote
to any man but myſelf. What einotions did I feel
in its per ufal! I traced the paflion of an in-
comparable woman, who would make a facrifice
of herſelf to fave her lover; and I diſcovered
Eloiſa. But when I came to the paſſage, wherein
the proteſts ſhe would never furvive the moſt
fortunate of men, how did I not ſhudder at the
dangers I had efcaped! I could not help com-
plaining that I was loved too well, and my fears
convincell me you are mortal. Ah! reftore me
that courage of which you have deprived me!
I had enough to fet death at defiance, when it
threatened only myſelf, but I ſhrunk when my
better half was in danger.
While
E LO I SA.
261
While I was indulging myſelf in theſe cruel
reflexions, I paid little attention to his lordſhip’s
diſcourſe, till I heard the name of Eloiſa. His
converſation gave me pleaſure, as it did not excite
my jealouſy. He ſeemed extremely to regret
his having diſturbed our mutual paffion and your
repoſe: he reſpects you indeed beyond any other
woman in the world; and, being aſhamed to
excuſe himfelf to you, begged me to receive his
apology in your name, and to prevail on you to
accept it.
6 I conſider you (ſays he) as her re-
preſentative, and cannot humble myſelf too
much to one ſhe loves; being incapable, without
having compromiſed this affair, to addreſs my-
ſelf perſonally to her, or even mention her name
to you.” He frankly confefſed to me he had en-
tertained for you thoſe ſentiments, which every
one muſt do who looks on Eloiſa: but that his
was rather a tender admiration than love; that
he had formed neither hope nor pretenſion, but
had given up all thoughts of either on hearing
of our connexions; and that the injurious dif-
courſe which eſcaped him was the effect of li-
quor, and not of jealouſy. He talked of love
like a philoſopher, who thinks his mind ſuperior
to the paſſions; but, for my part, I am miftaken
if he has not already felt a paſſion which will
prevent any other from taking deep root in his
breaft. He miſtakes a weakneſs of heart for
the effect of reaſon; but I know, that to love
Eloiſa, and be willing to renounce her, is not
among the virtues of human nature,
He
E LO IS A.
He deſired me to give him the hiſtory of our
amour, and an account of the cauſes which pre-
vented our happineſs. I thought that, after the
explicitneſs of your letter, a partial confidence
might be dangerous and unreaſonable. I made
it therefore complete, and he liſtened to me with
an attention that convinced me of his fincerity.
More than once I ſaw the tears come into his
eyes, while his heart ſeemed moſt tenderly af-
fected: above all, I obſerved the powerful im-
preſſions which the triumphs of virtue made on
his mind; and I pleaſe myſelf in having raiſed
up for Claud Anet a new protector, no leſs
zealous than your father. When I had done,
" There are neither incidents nor adventures (faid
he) in what you have related ; and yet the ca-
taſtrophe of a Romance could not equally affect
me; ſo well is a want of variety atoned for by
ſentiments; and of ſtriking actions ſupplied by
inſtances of a virtuous behaviour. Your's are
ſuch extraordinary minds that they are not to
be guided by common rules: your happineſs is
not to be attained in the ſame manner, nor
is it of the ſame ſpecies with that of others.
They ſeek power and pre-eminence; you re-
quire only tenderneſs and tranquillity. There is
blended with your affections a virtuous emula-
tion, that elevates both; and you would be leſs
deſerving of each other if you were not mutu-
ally in love. But love, he preſumed to ſay, will
one day loſe its power (for give him, Eloiſa, that
blafphemous expreſſion, ſpoken in the ignorance


of
5
E L O IS A.
263
of his heart) the power of love (faid he) will one
day be loſt, while that of virtue will remain.-0,
my Eloiſa! may our virtues but ſubſiſt as long
as our love! Heaven will require no more.
In fine, I found that the philoſophical inflexi-
bility of his nation had no influence over the na-
tural humanity of this honeſt Engliſhman; but
that his heart was really intereſted in our diffi-
culties. If wealth and credit can be uſeful to
us, I believe we have ſome reaſon to depend on
his ſervice. But, alas ! how ſhall credit or
riches operate to make us happy?
This interview, in which we did not count
the hours, laſted till dinner-time; I ordered a
pullet for dinner, after which we continued
our diſcourſe. Among other topicks, we fell
upon the ſtep his lordſhip had taken, with regard
to myſelf, in the morning, on which I could not
help expreffing my ſurpriſe at a procedure ſo ſom
lemn and uncommon. But, repeating the reaſons
he had already given me, he added, that to give
a partial ſatisfaction was unworthy a man of
courage: that he ought to make a complete one
or none at all, left he ſhould only debaſe him-
ſelf, without making any reparation; and left
a conceffion made involuntarily, and with an
ill
grace, ſhould be attributed to fear. 6 Beſides
(continued he) my reputation is eſtabliſhed; I
can do you juſtice without incurring the ſuſpi-
cion of cowardice; but you, who are young, and
juſt beginning the world, ought to clear youra
ſelf ſo well of the firſt affair you are engaged in

as
264 E LO IS A.
as to tempt no one to involve you in a ſecond.
The world is full of thoſe artful cowards, who
are upon the catch, as one may ſay, to taſte
their man; that is, to find out ſome greater cow-
ard than themſelves to ſhow their valour upon.
I would fave a man of honour, like you, the
trouble of chaſtifing ſuch ſcoundrels; I had ra-
ther, if they want a leffon, that they ſhould
take it of me than you : for one quarrel, more
or leſs, on the hands of a man who has already
had many, fignifies nothing: whereas, it is a
kind of diſgrace to have had but one, and the
lover of Eloiſa ſhould be exempt from it.”
This is, in abſtract, my long converſation
with Lord B-; of which I thought proper
to give you an account, that you might preſcribe
the manner in which I ought to behave to him.
As you ought now to be compoſed, chaſe from
your mind, I conjure you, thoſe dreadful ap-
prehenſions which have found a place there for
ſome days paſt. Think of the care you ſhould
take in the uncertainty of your preſent condi-
tion. Oh! ſhould you ſoon give me life in a third
being! Should a charming pledge---T00
flattering hope! doſt thou come again to de-
ceive me? -I wiſh! I fear! I am loit in
plexity! Oh! Thou deareſt charmer of
my
heart, let us live but to love, and let heaven dif-
poſe of us as it may.
P.S. I forgot to tell you that my lord offered
me your letter, and that I made no difficulty
of
per-
E LOIS A. 265
of taking it; thinking it improper that it ſhould
remain in the hands of a third perſon. I will
return it you the firſt time I ſee you: for, as to
myſelf, I have no occafion for it; it is deeply
engraven in my heart.
LET TER LXI.
FROM ELOISA.
B
RING my Lord B-- hither to-morrow,
that I may throw myſelf at his feet, as he has
done at your's. What greatneſs of mind!
What generoſity! Oh! how little do we ſeem,
compared to him! Preſerve ſo ineſtimable a
friend as you would the apple of youreye. Per-
haps he would be leſs valuable, were he of a
more even temper; was there ever a man with-
out ſome vices who had great virtues ?
A thouſand diſtreſſes of various kinds had
funk my ſpirits to the loweſt ebb; but
your
let.
ter has rekindled my extinguiſhed hopes. In
diſſipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety
the more ſupportable. I feel now I have ſtrength
enough to bear up under it. You live, you love
me; neither your own, nor the blood of your
friend has been ſpilt, and your honour is fe-
cured; I am not then completely miſerable.
Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had
ſo much reaſon for ſeeing you, nor ſo little hope
of having that pleaſure long. Farewell, my
dear friend, inſtead of ſaying, let us live but to
Vol. I.
M
love,

266
E LO I SA.
love, you Mould have ſaid, alas ! let us love
that we inay live.
L E T T E R
LXIT.
FROM CLARA.
M
UST I be always, my dear couſin, un-
der the neceflity of performing the moſt
diſagreeable offices of friendſhip? Muſt I always,
in the bitterneſs of my own heart, be giving af-
fiction to your's, by cruel intelligence? Qur
ſentiments, alas! are the ſame, and you are fen-
fible I can give no new uneaſineſs to you which
I have not firſt experienced myſelf. Oh! that I
could but conceal your misfortune without in-
creaſing it! or that a friendſhip like our's were
not as binding as love! How readily might I
throw off that chagrin I am now obliged to com-
municate! Laſt night, when the concert was
over, and your mother and
mother and you were gone home,
in company with your friend and Mr. Orbe, our
two fathers and Lord B- were left to talk poli-
ticks together; the diſagreeableneſs of the ſub-
ject, of which indeed I am quite ſurfeited, foon
made me retire to my own chamber. In about
half an hour, I heard the name of your friend
repeated with ſome vehemence; on which I
found the converſation had changed its ſubject,
and therefore liſtened to it with ſome attention ;
when I gathered by what followed, that his
lordſhip had ventured to propoſe a match be-
tween you and your friend, whom he frankly
called




E L O ISA.
267
called his, and on whom, as ſuch, he offered to
make a ſuitable ſettlement. Your father rejected
the propoſal with diſdain, and upon that the
converſation began to grow warm. “I muſt tell
you, Sir (ſaid my lord) that, notwithſtanding
your prejudices, he is of all men the moſt wor-
thy of her, and perhaps the moſt likely to make
her happy. He has received from nature every
gift that is independent of the world; and has
embelliſhed them by all thoſe talents which de-
pended on himſelf. He is young, tall, well-
made, and ingenious : he has the advantages
of education, ſenſe, manners, and courage; he
has a fine genius and a found mind; what then
does he require to make him worthy of your
daughter? Is it a fortune? He ſhall have one.
A third part of my own will make him the richeſt
man of this country: nay, I will give him, if it
be neceſſary, the half. Does he want a title?
ridiculous prerogative, in a country where nobi-
lity is more troubleſome than uſeful! But doubt
it not, he is noble: not that his nobility is made
out in writing upon an old parchment, but it is
engraven in indelible characters on his heart. In
a word, if you prefer the dictates of reaſon and
ſenſe to groundleſs prejudices, and if you love
your daughter better than empty titles, you will
give her to him.”
On this your father expreſſed himſelf in a vion
lent paffion : he treated the propoſal as 'abſurd
and ridiculous." How! my lord! (ſaid he) is it
poffible a man of honour, as you are, can enter-
tain

M 2
268
E L O IS A.
tain ſuch a thought, that the laſt ſurviving branch
of an illuſtrious family ſhould go to loſeand de-
grade its name, in that of nobody knows who
à fellow without home, and reduced to ſubfiſt
upon charity.”—“ Hold Sir (interrupted my
lord) you are ſpeaking of my friend; confider
that I muſt take upon myſelf every injury done
him in my company, and that ſuch language as
is injurious to a man of honour, is more ſo to
him who makes uſe of it. Such Fellows are more
reſpectable than all the country '[quires in Eu-
rope; and I defy you to point out a more
honourable way to fortune, than by accept-
ing the debts of eſteem, or the gifts of friend-
ſhip. If my friend does not trace his de-
ſcent, as you do, from a long and doubtful fuc-
ceffion of anceſtors, he will lay the foundation,
and be the honour of his own houſe; as the firſt
of your anceſtors did that of your's. Can you
think yourſelf diſhonoured by your alliance to
the head of your family, without falling under
the contempt you have for him? How many
great families would fink again into oblivion, if
we reſpected only thoſe which deſcended from
truely reſpectable originals! Judge of the paſt
by the preſent; for two or three honeſt ci-
tizens ennobled by virtuous means, a thou.
ſand knayes find every day the way to ag-
grandiſe themſelves and families. But, to what
end ſerves that nobility, of which their deſcen-
dants are ſo proud, unleſs it be to prove the in-
5
juſtice

E LO I S A.
269
juſtice and infamy of their anceſtors * ? There
are, I muſt confeſs, a great number of bad men
among the common people; but the odds are
always twenty to one againſt a gentleman, that
he is deſcended from a ſcoundrel. Let us, if you
will, ſet aſide defcent, and compare only merit
and utility. You have borne arms in the ſervice
and pay of a foreign prince; his father fought
without pay in the ſervice of his country. If
you have well ſerved, you have been well paid;
and, whatever honour you may have acquired by
arms, a hundred Plebeians may have acquired
ſtill more.
“ In what conſiſts the honour, then (continued
my lord) of that nobility of which you are ſo
tenacious ? How does it affect the glory of one's
country, or the good of mankind ? A mortal
enemy to liberty and the laws, what did it ever
produce in moſt of thoſe countries where it has
flouriſhed, but the rod of tyranny, and the op-
preſſion of the people? Will you preſume to
boaſt, in a republick, of a rank that is deſtructive
to virtue and humanity? Of a rank that makes
its boaſt of ſlavery, and wherein men bluſh to
be men? Read the annals of your own coun-
try: what have any of the nobility merited of
her? Were any of her deliverers nobles ?
The Furſts, the Tells, the Stouffachers, were
M 3
they
* Titular grants are not very common in the preſent
age, except thoſe which are bought, or are obtained by
placemen; the moſt honourable appendage to which, that
I know of, is the privilege of not being hanged,


270
E LO I SA.
they gentlemen? What, then, is that abſurd how
nour about which you make ſo much noiſe ?”
Think, my dear, what I ſuffered to hear this
reſpectable man thus injure, by an ill-concerted
application, the cauſe of that friend whom he
endeavoured to ſerve. Your father being irri.
tated by ſo many galling, though general invec-
tives, ftrove to retort thein by perſonal ones.
He told his lordſhip plainly, that never any
man of his condition talked in the manner he
had done. “ Trouble not yourſelf to plead ano-
ther's cauſe (added he roughly :) honourable as
you are ſtiled, I doubt much if you could make
your own good, on the ſubject in queſtion. You
demand my daughter for your pretended friend,
without knowing whether you are yourſelf an
equal match for her; and I know enough of the
Engliſh nobility to entertain, from your diſa
courſe, a very indifferent opinion of your's.”
To this his lordſhip anſwered; " Whatever
you may think of me, Sir, I ſhould be very ſorry
to be able to give no other proof of my merit
than the name of a man who died five hundred
years ago. If you know the nobility of England,
you know that it is the leaſt prejudiced, beſt in-
formed, moſt ſenſible, and braveſt of all Europe;
after which, it is needleſs to aſk whether it be the
moſt ancient; for, when we talk of what is, we
never mind what has been. We are not, it is
true, the flaves, but the friends of our prince; not
the oppreffors of a people, but their leaders. The
guardians of liberty, the pillars of our country,
and



E LO I SA..
271
and the ſupport of the throne, we maintain an
equilibrium between the people and the king,
Our firſt regards are due to the nation, our ſe-
cond to him that governs: we conſult not his
will but hisjuft prerogative. Supreme judges in
the Houſe of Peers, and ſometimes legiſlators,
we render equal juſtice to the king and people,
and ſuffer no one to fay God and my ſword, but
only God and my right.
“ Such, Sir (continued he) is that reſpectable
nobility with which you are unacquainted; as
ancient as any other, but more proud of its me-
rit than of its anceſtors. I am one, not the
loweſt in rank of that illuſtrious order, and be-
lieve, whatever be your pretenfions, that I am
your equal in every reſpect. I have a fifter un-
married; the is young, amiable, rich, and in
no wiſe inferior to Eloiſa, except in thoſe
qualities which with you paſs for nothing.
Now, Sir, if after being enamoured with your
daughter, it were poflible for any one to change
the object of his affections, and admire another,
I ſhould think it an honour to accept the man
for my brother, though without a fortune, whom
I propoſe to you for a ſon with half my eſtate."
I knew matters would only be aggravated
by your father's reply; and though I was ftruck
with admiration at my Lord B-'s genero-
fity, I ſaw plainly that he would totally ruin the
negociation he had undertaken. I went in,
therefore, to prevent things froin going farther.
My enterance broke off the converſation, and
immediately
M4
272
E L O IS A.
immediately after they coldly took leave of each
other and parted. As to my father, he be-
haved very well in the diſpute. At firſt he ſecond-
ed the propoſal; but, finding that your's would
hear nothing of it, he took the ſide of his bro-
ther-in-law, and by taking proper opportunities
to moderate the conteft, prevented them from
going beyond thoſe bounds they would certain-
ly have treſpaſſed, had they been alone. After
their departure, he related to me what had hap-
pened; and, as I foreſaw where his diſcourſe
would end, I readily told him, that things be-
ing in ſuch a ſituation, it would be improper
the perſon in queſtion ſhould ſee you ſo often
here, and that it would be better for him not
to come hither at all, if ſuch an intimation would
not be putting a kind of affront on Mr. Orbe,
his friend; but that I ſhould deſire him to bring
Lord
Bleſs frequently for the future.
This, my dear, was the beſt I could do, to pre-
vent our door being entirely ſhut againſt him.
But this is not all. The criſis in which you
ſtand at preſent obliges me to return to my for-
mer advice. The affair between my Lord B
and your friend has made all the noiſe in town
which was natural to expect. For though Mr.
Orbe has kept the original cauſe of their quarrel
a ſecret, the circumſtances are too publick to
fuffer it to lie concealed. Every one has fufpi-
cions, makes conjectures, and ſome go ſo far as
to name Eloiſa. The report of the watch was
not ſo totally ſuppreiled as not to be remembered;
and
E L O IS A.
273
and you are not ignorant, that, in the eye of the
world, a bare ſuſpicion of the truth is look-
ed upon as evidence. All that I can ſay for
your conſolation is, that in general your choice
iş approved, and every body thinks with plea-
fure on the union of ſo charming a couple.
This confirms me in the opinion that your friend
has behaved himſelf well in this country, and is
not leſs beloved than yourſelf. But what is the
publick voice to your inflexible father? All this
talk has already reached, or will come to his
ear; and I tremble to think of the effect it may
produce, if you do not ſpeedily take ſome mea-
fures to prevent his anger. You muſt expect from
him an explanation terrible to yourſelf, and
perhaps ftill worſe for your friend. Not that
I think, at his age, he will condeſcend to chal-
lenge a young man he thinks unworthy his
ſword: but the influence he has in the town
will furniſh him, if he has a mind to it, with a
thouſand means to ſtir up a party againſt him;
and it is to be feared that his paffion will be too
ready to excite him to do it.
On my knees, therefore, I conjure you, my
dear friend, to think on the dangers that ſur-
round you, and the terrible riſk you run, which
increaſes every moment.
You have been ex-
tremely fortunate to eſcape hitherto, in the midſt
of ſuch hazards; but, while it is yet time, I
beg of you to let the veil of prudence be thrown
over the ſecret of your amours; and not to puſh
your fortune farther, left it ſhould involve
M
.
in
274
E L O IS A.
in your misfortunes the man who has been the
cauſe of them. Believe me, my dear, the fu-
ture is uncertain ; a thouſand accidents may hap-
pen unexpectedly in your favour ; but, for the
preſent, I have ſaid, and repeat it moſt earneſtly,
fend away your friend, or you are undone.
LETTER LXIII.
FROM ELOISA TO CLARA.
A
LL that you forefaw, my dear, is come to
país. Laſt night, about an hour after we
got home, my father entered my mother's apart-
ment, his eyes ſparkling, and his countenance in-
flamed with anger; in a word, ſo irritated as I
never ſaw him before. I found immediately that
he had either juft left a quarrel, or was ſeeking
occaſion to begin one: and my guilty conſcience
made me tremble for the conſequence.
He began, by exclaiming violently, but in
general terms, againſt ſuch mothers as indif-
cretely invite to their houſes young fellows with-
out family or fortune, whoſe acquaintance
only brings Thame and ſcandal on thoſe who
cultivate it. Finding this not ſufficient to draw
an anſwer from an intimidated woman, he
brought up particularly, as an example, what
had paſſed in her own houſe, fince ſhe had in-
troduced a pretended wit, an empty babler,
more fit to debauch the mind of a modeſt
joung



woman
E L O IS A.
275
would you
have your
woman than to inſtruct her in any thing that is
good.
My mother, who now ſaw ſhe could get
little by holding her tongue, took him up at the
word debauch, and aſked what he had ever ſeen
in the conduct; or knew of the character of
the perſon he ſpoke of, to authoriſe ſuch baſe
ſuſpicions. “ I did not conceive (ſhe added) that
genius and merit were to be excluded from fo-
ciety. To whom, pray, would
houſe open, if fine talents and good behaviour
have no pretenſions to admittance?”_" To our
equals, madam (he replied in a fury ;) to fuch
as might repair the honour of a daughter if they
ſhould injure it.”—“No, Sir (faid ſhe) but rather
to people of virtue who cannot injure it.”-
Know, madam, that the preſumption of ſolli-
citing an alliance with my family, without a title
to that honour, is highly injurious."-". So far
from thinking it injurious (returned my mother)
I think it, on the contrary, the higheſt mark
of eſteem: but I know not that the perſon you
exclaim againſt has made any ſuch pretenfions.'
56 He has done it, madam, and will do worſe,
if I do not take proper care to prevent him;
but, for the future, I ſhall take upon myſelf the
charge you, have executed fo ill.”
On this began a dangerous altercation be-
tween them ; by which I found they were both
ignorant of thoſe reports, which you ſay have
been ſpread about the town. During this time,
your unworthy couſin could, nevertheleſs, have
M 6
wiſhed


276
E LO IS A.
wiſhed herſelf buried an hundred feet in the
earth. Think of the beſt and moſt abuſed of
mothers laviſhing encomiums on her guilty
daughter, and praiſing her for all thoſe virtues
fe has loſt, in the moſt reſpectful, or rather
to me the moſt mortifying terms. Think of an
angry father, profuſe of injurious expreſſions,
and yet, in the height of his indignation, not
letting one eſcape him in the leaſt reflecting on
the prudence of her, who, torn by remorſe, and
humbled with ſhame, could hardly ſupport his
preſence.
Oh! the inconceivable torture of a bleeding
heart, reproaching itſelf with unſuſpected crimes!
How depreſſing and inſupportable is the bur-
then of unmerited praiſe, and of an eſteem of
which the heart is conſcious it is unworthy!
I was, indeed, ſo terribly oppreſſed, that, in or-
der to free myſelf from fo cruel a ſituation, I
was juſt going, if the impetuofity of his temper
would have given me time, to confeſs all. But
he was ſo enraged as to repeat over and over a
hundred times the ſame things, and yet to diver-
fify the ſubject every moment. He took notice
of my looks, caſt down, and affrighted, in conſe-
quence of my remorſe, and if he did not conſtrue
them into thoſe of my guilt, he did into looks of
my love; but, to ſhame me the more, he abuſed
the object of it in terms ſo odious and contempt-
ible, that, in ſpite of all my endeavours, I could
not let him proceed without interruption. I
know not whence, my dear, I had ſo much cou-

rage
E L O IS A.
277
rage, or how I came ſo far to treſpaſs the bounds
of modeſty and duty: but, if I ventured to break
for a moment that reſpectful ſilence they dic-
tate, I ſuffered for it, as you will ſee, very ſeverely.
“ For heaven's fake, my dear father (faid I) be
pacified: never could your daughter be in danger
from a man deſerving ſuch abuſe.” I had ſcarce
ſpoken, when, as if he had felt himſelf reproved
by what I ſaid, or that his paſſion wanted only a
pretext for extremities, he flew upon your poor
friend, and for the firſt time in my life, I received
from him a box on the ear: nor was this all,
but, giving himſelf up entirely to his paſſion,
he proceeded to beat me without mercy, not-
withſtanding my mother threw herſelf in be-
tween us, to ſcreen me from his blows, and
received many of thoſe which were intended for
At length, in running back to avoid them,
my foot flipped, and I fell down with my face
againſt the foot of a table,
Here ended the triumph of paſſion, and began
that of nature. My fall, the fight of my blood,
my tears, and thoſe of my mother greatly af-
fected him. He raiſed me up, with an air of
affliction and follicitude; and having placed me
in a chair, they both eagerly enquired where I
was hurt. I had received only a fight bruiſe on
my forehead, and bled only at the noſe. I ſaw,
nevertheleſs, by the alteration in the air and
voice of my father, that he was diſpleaſed at
what he had done. He was not, however, im-
mediately reconciled to me; paternal authority
me.
did
278
E LO I SA.
did not permit ſo abrupt a change ; but he apo-
logized with many tender excuſes to my mo-
ther; and I ſaw plainly, by the looks he caſt on
me, to whom half of his apologies were indi-
rectly addreſſed. Surely, my dear, there is no
confufion ſo affecting as that of a tender father,
who thinks himſelf to blame in his treatment of a
child.
Supper being ready, it was ordered to be put
back, that I might have time to compoſe my-
ſelf; and my father, unwilling the ſervants
ſhould ſee any thing of my diſorder, went
himſelf for a glaſs of water; while my mother
was bathing the contufion on my forehead.
Ah! my dear, how I pitied her! already in
a very ill and languiſhing ſtate of health,
how gladly would ſhe have been excuſed from
being witneſs to ſuch a ſcene! How little
leſs did ſhe ſtand in need of affiſtance than I !
At ſupper, my father did not ſpeak to me,
but I could ſee his filence was the effect of flame,
and not of diſdain: he pretended to find every
thing extremely good, in order to bid my mo-
ther help me to it; and, what touched me the
moſt ſenſibly was, that he took all occaſions to
call me his daughter, and not Eloiſa, as is cu-
ſtomary with him.
After ſupper, the evening was ſo cold that
my mother ordered a fire in her chamber :
fhe placing herſelf on one fide, and iny
ther on the other, I went to take a chair, to fit
down in the middle; when, laying hold of my
gown
E LO IS A.
279
gown, and drawing me gently to him, he placed
me on his knee, without ſpeaking a word.
This was done immediately, and by a ſort of
involuntary impulſe, that he ſeemed to be almoſt
ſorry for it a moment afterwards. But I was
on his knee, and he could not well puſh me from
him again, and what added to his apparent con-
defcenſion, he was obliged to ſupport me with
his arms in that attitude. All this paſſed in a
kind of reluctant ſilence; but I perceived him,
every now and then, ready to give me an invo.
luntary embrace, which however he reſiſted, at
the ſame time endeavouring to ſtifle a figh,
which came from the bottom of his heart. A
certain falſe ſhame prevented his paternal arms
from claſping me with that tenderneſs he too
plainly felt: a certain gravity, he was alhamed
to depart from, a confuſion he durſt not overa
come, occafioned between a father and his daugh-
ter the ſame charming embarraſſment, as love
and modeſty cauſe between lovers; in the mean
while, a moſt affectionate mother, tranſported
with pleaſure, ſecretly enjoyed the delightful
fight. I ſaw, I felt it all, and could no longer ſup-
port a ſcene of ſuch melting tenderneſs. I pre-
tended to flip down; and, to ſave myſelf, threw
my arm round my father's neck, laying my face
cloſe to his venerable cheek, which I preſſed
with repeated kifles, and bathed with my tears.
At the fame time, by thoſe which flowed plenti-
fully from his eyes, I could perceive him great-
ly relieved; while my mother embraced us both,
and



280
E LO I SA.
and partook of our tranſports. How ſweet,
how peaceful is innocence! which alone was
wanting to make this the moſt delightful mo-
ment of my life!
This morning, laſſitude, and the pain I felt
from my fall, having kept me in bed later than
uſual, my father came into my chamber before
I was up; when aſking kindly, after my health,
he fat down by the ſide of my bed; and taking
one of my hands into his, he condeſcended ſo
far as to kiſs it ſeveral times, calling me at the
ſame time his dear daughter, and expreſſing his
ſorrow for his reſentment. I told him, I ſhould
think myſelf but too happy to ſuffer as much
every day, to have the pleaſure he then gave me
in return; and that the ſevereſt treatment I could
receive from him would be fully recompenſed
by the ſmalleſt inſtance of his kindneſs.
Then, putting on a more ſerious air, he re-
fumed the ſubject of yeſterday, and ſignified his
pleaſure in civil but poſitive terms. “You know
(ſays he) the huſband I deſign for you: I in-
timated to you my intentions concerning him on
my arrival, and ſhall never change them, on that
head. As to the man whom Lord B ſpoke of,
though I ſhall not diſpute the merit every body
allows him, I know not whether he has of him-
ſelf conceived the ridiculous hopes of being allied
to me, or if it has been inſtilled into him by
others; but, be aſſured, that, had I even no
other perſon in view, and he was in poſſeſſion of
all the guineas in England, I would never ac-
cept

E LO I S A.
281
eept him for my ſon-in-law. I forbid you,
therefore, either to ſee or ſpeak to him as long as
you live, and that as well for the ſake of his ho-
nour as your own. I never indeed felt any great
regard for him; but now I mortally hate him, for
the outrages he has been the occaſion of my com-
mitting, and ſhall never forgive him the violence
I have been guilty of.”
Having ſaid this, he roſe and left me, without
waiting for my anſwer, and with the ſame air of
ſeverity which he had juſt reproached himſelf for
aſſuming before. Ah! my dear couſin, what an
infernal monſter is prejudice; that depraves the
beſt of hearts, and puts the voice of nature every
moment to ſilence!
Thus ended the explanation you predicted,
and of which I could not comprehend the rea-
ſon till your letter informed me. I cannot well
tell what revolution it has occafioned in
my
mind; but I find myſelf ever ſince greatly al-
tered. I ſeem to look back with more regret
to that happy time, when I lived content and
tranquil with my family friends around me: and
that the ſenſe of my errour increaſes with that
of the bleſſings of which it has deprived me.
Tell me, my ſevere monitor, tell me, if you dare
be ſo cruel, are the joyful hours of love all gone
and fled? And will they never more return?
Do you perceive, alas ! how gloomy and hor-
rible is that fad apprehenfion? And yet, my
father's commands are poſitive; the danger of
my lover is certain. Think, my dear Clara,
on
282
E LO I SA.
now.
on the reſult of ſuch oppoſite motions, deſtroy-
ing the effects of each other in my heart. A
kind of ſtupidity has taken poffeffion of me,
which makes me almoſt inſenſible, and leaves
me neither the uſe of my paſſions nor my rea-
ſon. The preſent moment, you tell me, is
critical-I know, I feel it is : and yet I was
never more incapable to conduct myſelf than
I have ſat down more than twenty times
to write to my lover : but I am ready to ſink at
every line. I have no reſource, my dear
friend, but in you. Let me prevail on you then
to think, to ſpeak, to act for me. I put my-
ſelf into your hands: whatever ſtep you think
proper to take, I hereby confirm beforehand
every thing you do; I commit to your friend.
thip that fad authority over a lover which I have
bought ſo dear. Divide me for ever from my-
ſelf. Kill me, if I muſt die; but do not force
me to plunge the dagger in my own breaſt. O,
my good angel! my protectreſs! what an em-
ployment do I engage you in! Can you have
the courage to go through it? Can
you
find
means to ſoften its feverity? It is not my heart
alone you will rend to pieces. You know,
Clara, yes, you know, how fincerely I am be-
loved; that I have not even the confolation of
being the moſt to be pitied. Let my heart, I
beſeech you, ſpeak from your lips, and let your's
ſympathiſe with the tender compaſſion of love.
Comfort the poor unfortunate youth, tell him,
ah! tell him again and again-do you not think
fo,


E LO IS A.
283
fo, my dear friend? do you not think that, in
ſpite of prepoſſeſſions and prejudice, in ſpite of
all obſtacles and croſſes, Heaven has made us
for each other? Yes, tell him fo-I am ſure
of it--we are deſtined to be happy. It is im-
poffible for me to loſe fight of that proſpect :
it is impoſlible for me to give up that delightful
hope. Tell him, therefore, not to be too much
afflicted; not to give way to deſpair. You need
not trouble yourſelf to exact a promiſe of eter-
nal love and fidelity; and ſtill leſs to make him
a needleſs promiſe of mine. Is not the affur-
ance of both firmly rooted in our hearts? Do
we not feel that we are indiviſible, and that we
have but one mind between usi Tell him only
to hope, and that though fortune perſecutes us,
he may place his confidence in love; which I
am certain, my dear couſin, will in ſome way or
other compenſate for the evils it makes us ſuffer;
as I am that, however heaven'may diſpoſe of us,
we ſhall not live long from each other.
P. S. After I had written the above, I went
into my mother's apartment, but found myſelf
fo ill that I was obliged to return, and lie down
on the bed. I even perceived alas! I am
afraid.indeed, my dear, I am afraid the
fall I had laſt night will be of much worſe
conſequence than I imagined. If ſo, all is
over with me! all my hopes are vaniſhed at
once!

L E T T E R
234
E LO I $ A.
LET TER LXIV.
CLARA TO MR. ORBE.
MY
Y father hath this morning related to mo
the converſation he had yeſterday with
you. I perceive with pleaſure that your expec-
tations of what you are pleaſed to call your hap-
pineſs are not without foundation : you know,
I hope, that it will prove mine too. Eſteem and
friendſhip are already in your poffeffion, and all
of that more tender ſentiment of which my heart
is capable is alſo your's. Yet, be not deceived; as
a woman, I am a kind of monſter; by whatſo-
ever ſtrange whim of nature it happens I know
not, but this I know, that my friendſhip is
more powerful than my love. When I tell you
that my Eloiſa is dearer to me than yourſelf, you
only laugh at me; and yet nothing can be more
certain. Eloiſa is fo fenfible of this, that fre
is more jealous for you than you are for yourſelf.
And whilſt you are contented, ſhe is upbraiding
me, that I do not love you ſufficiently. I am
even ſo ſtrongly intereſted in every thing which
concerns her, that her lover and you hold nearly
the ſame place in my heart, though in a different
What I feel for him is friendſhip
only; but it is violent: for you, I think, I pet-
ceive ſomething of a certain paffion called love;
but then it is tranquil. Now, though this might
appear ſufficiently equivocal to diſturb the repoſe
of
manner.
E LO IS A.
385
of a jealous mind, I do not believe it will cauſe
much uneaſineſs to you.
How far, alas! are theſe two poor fouls from
that tranquillity which we preſume to enjoy!
and how ill does this contentment become us,
whilft our friends are in deſpair! It is decreed
they muſt part, and perhaps this may be the
very inſtant of their eternal ſeparation. Who
knows but their mutual dejection, with which
we reproached them at the concert, might be a
foreboding that it was the laſt time they ſhould
ever meet? To this hour your friend is ig-
norant of his deſtiny. In the ſecurity of his heart
he ſtill enjoys the felicity of which he is already
deprived. In the very inſtant of deſpair he taſtes,
in idea, the ſhadow of happineſs; and like one
who is on the brink of ſudden death, the poor
wretch dreams of exiſtence, unapprehenſive of
his fate. O heavens! it is from me he is to
receive the ſad ſentence. O friendſhip divine!
the idol of my ſoul! arm me, I beſeech thee,
with thy ſecret cruelty. Inſpire me with bar-
barous reſolution, and enable me to perform this
ſad duty with becoming magnanimity!
I depend on your aſliſtance, and I ſhould
expect it even if you loved me leſs; for I know
your tender heart : it will have no need of the
zeal of love when humanity pleads. You will
engage our friend to come to me to-morrow
morning; but be ſure not to mention a fyllable
of the affair. To day I muſt not be interrupted.
I ſhall paſs the afternoon with Eloiſa. Endea-
your

286
E LO I SA.
vour to find Lord B, and bring him with
you about eight o'clock this evening, that we
may come to ſome determination concerning
the departure of this unhappy man, and endea-
vour to prevent his deſpair.
I have great confidence in his reſolution, added
to our precautions, and I have ſtill greater de-
pendence on his paſſion for Eloiſa : her will, the
danger of her life and honour, are motives which
he cannot refift. Be it as it will, you may
be
aſſured that I ſhall not dream of marriage till
Eloiſa has recovered her peace of mind. I will
not ſtain the matrimonial knot with the tears of
my friend. So that, if you really love me, your
intereſt will fecond your generoſity, and it be-
comes your own affair, rather than that of an-
other.
L ET TER LXV.
CLARA TO ELOISA.
A
LL is over ! and, in ſpite of her indiſcretion,
my Eloiſa is in ſafety. Her ſecrets are
buried in filence. She is ſtill loved and che-
riſhed in the midſt of her friends and relations,
poffeffing every one's eſteem, and a reputation
without blemiſh. Conſider, my friend, and trem-
ble for the dangers which, through motives
of love or ſhame, through fear of doing too little
or too much, you have run. Learn hence, too
fond or too fearful girl, never more to attempt
to
E LO IS A.
287
ture.
to renconcile ſentiments ſo incompatible; and
thank heaven, that, through a happineſs pecu-
liar to yourſelf, you have eſcaped the evils that
threatened you. .
I would ſpare your forrowing heart the parti-
culars of your lover's cruel and neceſſary depar-
But
you
defired to know them; I pro-
miſed you ſhould, and will keep my word with
that ſincerity which ever ſubſiſted between us.
Read on then, my dear and unhappy friend;
read on, but exert your courage, and maintain
your reſolution.
The plan I had concerted, and of which
I adviſed you yeſterday, was punctually followed
in every particular. On my return home, I
found Mr. Orbe and my Lord B---; with
whom I immediately began, by declaring to the
latter how much we were both affected by his
heroick generoſity. I then gave them urgent rea-
ſons for the immediate departure of your friend,
and told them the difficulties I förefaw in bring-
ing it about. His lordſhip was perfectly fen-
fible that it was neceſſary, and expreſſed much
forrow for the effects of his imprudent zeal.
They both agreed it was proper to haften the
feparation determined, and to lay hold of the firſt
moment of conſent, to prevent any new irreſo-
lution; and to fnatch him from the danger of de-
lay. I would have engaged Mr. Orbe to make
the neceſſary preparations, unknown to your
friend; but his lordſhip, regarding this affair as
his own, inſiſted on taking charge of it. He
accordingly


I
288
E L O IS A.
accordingly promiſed me, that his chaiſe ſhould
be ready at eleven o'clock this morning, adding
that he would carry him off under fome other
pretext, and accompany him as far as it might
be neceſſary ; opening the matter to him at lei-
fure. This expedient, however, did not appear
to me ſufficiently open and fincere, nor would I
conſent to expoſe him, at a diſtance, to the firſt
effects of a deſpair, which might more eaſily
eſcape the eyes of Lord B-_ than mine.
For the ſame reaſon, I did not cloſe with his lord-
ſhip's propoſal of ſpeaking himſelf to him, and
prevailing on him to depart. I foreſaw that ne-
gociation would be a delicate affair, and I was
unwilling to truſt any body with it but myſelf;
knowing much better how to manage his ſen-
ſibility, and alſo that there is always a harſh-
neſs in the arguments of the men which a woman
beſt knows how to foften. I conceived, never-
theleſs, that my lord might be of uſe in prepar-
ing the way for an eclairciſſement; being ſen-
ſible of the effects which the diſcourſe of a man
of ſenſe might have over a virtuous mind; and
what force the perſuaſions of a friend might give
to the arguments of a philoſopher.
I engaged Lord B-- therefore, to paſs
the evening with him, and without faying any
thing directly of his ſituation, to endeavour to
diſpoſe his mind infenfibly to a ſtoical reſolu-
tion. 66 You, my lord, who are ſo well ac-
quainted with Epictetus (ſays I) have now an
opportunity of making ſome real uſe of him.
Diſtinguiſh
E LO IS A.
289

Diſtinguiſh carefully between real and apparent
good, between that which depends on ourſelves
and what is dependent on others. Demonſtrate
to him, that, whatever threatens us from with-
out, the cauſe of evil is within us; and that the
wiſe man, being always on his guard, has his
happineſs ever in his own power.” I underſtood
by his lordſhip’s anſwer that this ſtroke of irony,
which could not offend him, ferved to excite
his zeal, and that he counted much on fending
his friend the next day well prepared. This, in-
deed, was the moſt I expected; for in reality, I
place no great dependence, any more than your-
ſelf, on all that verboſe philofophy. And yet
I am perſuaded a virtuous man muſt always feel
ſome kind of ſhame, in changing at night the
opinions he embraced in the morning, and in de-
nying in his heart the next day what his reaſon
dictated for truth the preceding night.
Mr. Orbe was deſirous of being of their
party, and paſſing the evening with them ;
but to this I objected; as his preſence might
only diſturb, or lay a reſtraint on the con-
verſation. The intereſt I have in him does not
prevent me from ſeeing he is not a match
for the other two. The maſculine turn of
thinking in men of ſtrong minds gives a pecu-
liar idiom to their diſcourſe, and makes them
converſe in a language to which Mr. Orbe is a
ſtranger. In taking leave of them, I thought
of the effects of his lord ſhip's drinking punch;
and, fearing he might, when in liquor, anti-
VOL, I.
N
cipate

290
E L O IS A.
cipate my deſign, I laughingly hinted as much
to him: to which he anſwered, I might be
aſſured he would indulge himſelf in ſuch habits
only when it could be of no ill effect; but
that he was no ſlave to cuſtom; that the inter-
view intended concerned Eloiſa's honour, the
fortune and perhaps the life of a man, and that
man his friend. “ I ſhall drink my punch (con-
tinued he) as uſual, left it ſhould give our con-
verſation an air of reſerve and preparation ; but
that punch ſhall be mere lemonade; and, as he
drinks none, he will not perceive it.”-Don't you
think it, my dear, a great niortification, to have
contracted habits that make ſuch precautions as
theſe neceſſary?
I paſſed the night in great agitation of mind,
not altogether on your account. The innocent
pleaſures of our early youth, the agreeableneſs
of our long intimacy, and the cloſer connexions
that have fubfiſted between us for a year paſt,
on account of the difficulty he met with in ſee-
ing you--all this filled me with the moſt dif-
agreeable apprehenſions of your ſeparation. I
perceived I was going to loſe, with the half of
you, a part of my own exiſtence. Awake and
reſtleſs, I lay counting the clock, and when the
morning dawned, I ſhuddered to think it was the
dawn of that day which might fix the deſtiny
of my friend. I ſpent the early part of the
morning in meditating on my intended diſcourſe,
and in reflecting on the impreſſions it might
make. At length the hour drew nigh, and my
expected
4

E L O IS A.
291
.
expected viſitor entered. He appeared much
troubled, and haſtily aſked me after you; for he
had heard, the day after your ſevere treatment
from your father, that you was ill, which was
yeſterday confirmed by my Lord B-, and that
you had kept your bed ever ſince. To avoid
entering into particulars on this ſubject, I told
him I had left you better laſt night, and that he
would know more by the return of Hans, whom
I had ſent to you. My precaution was to no
purpoſe, he went on afking me a hundred que-
ftions, to which, as they only tended to lead me
from my purpoſe, I made ſhort anſwers, and took
upon me to interrogate him in my turn.
I began, by endeavouring to found his diſpo-
ſition of mind, and found him grave, methodi-
cal, and reaſonable. Thank heaven, ſaid I to
myſelf, my philoſopher is well prepared. No-
thing remained, therefore, but to put him to the
tryal. It is an uſual cuſtom to open bad news
by degrees; but the knowledge I had of the
furious imagination of your friend, which at
half a word's ſpeaking carries him often into the
moſt paffionate extremes, determined me to take
a contrary method; as I thought it better to
overwhelm him at once, and adminiſter comfort
to him afterwards, than needleſsly to multiply
his griefs, and give him a thouſand pains inſtead of
one. Affuming, therefore, a more ſerious tone,
and looking at him very attentively; “ Have you
ever experienced, my friend (faid I) what the
fortitude of a great mind is capable of ? Do you
N 2
think

292
E LO IS A.
think it poflible for a man to renounce the ob-
ject he truely loves ?” I had ſcarce ſpoke, before
he ſtarted up like a madman; and, claſping his
hands together, ftruck them againſt his forehead,
cying out, “ I underſtand you, Eloiſa is dead! my
Eloiſa is dead !” repeated he, in a tone of deſpair
and horrour that made me tremble. “ I ſee through
your vain circumſpection, your uſeleſs cautions,
that only render my tortures more lingering and
cruel.” Frightened as I was by ſo ſudden a tran-
ſport, I foon entered into the cauſe : the news
he had heard of your illneſs, the lecture which
Lord B-had read him, our appointed meet-
ing this morning, my evading his queſtions, and
thoſe I put to him, were all ſo many collateral
circumſtances combining to give him a falſe
alarm. I ſaw plainly alſo what uſe I might have
made of his miſtake, by leaving him in it a few
minutes, but I could not be cruel enough to do
it. The thought of the death of the perſon
one loves is ſo ſhocking, that any other what-
ever is comparatively agreeable; I haſtened ac-
cordingly to make theadvantage of it. “Perhaps,
(ſaid I) you will never ſee her again, yet ſhe is
alive, and ſtill loves you. If Eloiſa were dead,
what could Clara have to ſay? Be thankful
to heaven that, unfortunate as you are, you
do
not feel all thoſe evils which might have over-
whelmed you.” He was ſo ſurpriſed, ſo ftruck,
ſo bewildered, that, having made him ſit down
again, I had leiſure to acquaint him with what
it was neceſſary for him to know. At the
fame

E L O IS A.
293
ſame time I repreſented the generous behaviour
of Lord B-- in the moſt amiable light,
in order to divert his grief, by exciting, in his
honeſt mind, the gentler emotions of gratitude.
" You ſee (continued I) the preſent ſtate of af-
fairs. Eloiſa is on the brink of deſtruction,
juſt ready to ſee herſelf expoſed to publick
diſgrace by the reſentment of her family, by the
violence of an enraged father, and her own de-
ſpair. The danger increaſes every moment;
and, whether in her own, or in the hand of
a father, the poinard is every inſtant of her life
within an inch of her heart. There remains
but one way to prevent theſe misfortunes, and
that depends entirely on you.
The fate of
Eloiſa is in your hands.
you
have the
fortitude to ſave her from ruin, by leaving her,
fince ſhe is no longer permitted to ſee you, or
whether you had rather ſtay to be the authour
and witnefs of her diſhonour? After having done
every thing for
you,
the
puts your heart to the
tryal, to ſee what you can do for her. It is afto.
niſhing that the bears up under her diſtreffes.
You are anxious for her life; know then that her
life, her honour, her all depends on you."
He heard me without interruption; and no
ſooner perfectly comprehended me, than that
wild geſture, that furious look, that frightful air,
which he had put on juſt before, immediately
diſappeared. A gloomy veil of ſorrow and con-
fternation ſpread itſelf over his features, while
his mournful eyes and bewildered countenance
N
3
betrayed
Try if
N 3
294
E L O IS A.
betrayed the ſadneſs of his heart. In this fi-
tuation he could hardly, open his lips to make
me an anſwer. “ Muſt I then go? (faid he, in a
peculiar tone;) it is well-I will go. Have
I not lived long enough?"--" No(returned I) not
ſo, you ſhould ſtill live for her who loves you.
Have you forgot that her life is dependent on
your's?”-Why then ſhould our lives be ſepa-
rated? (cried he;) there was a time-It is not
yet too late
I affected not to underſtand the laſt words, and
was endeavouring to comfort him with ſome
hopes, which I could ſee his heart rejected,
when Hans returned with the good news of your
health. In the joy he felt at this (he cried out)
“ My Eloiſa lives-let her live, and if poflible
be happy. I will never diſturb her repoſe--I will
only bid her adieu-and, if it muſt be ſo, will
leave her for ever.
“ You ſurely know (ſaid I) that you are
not permitted to ſee her. You have already
bidden farewell, and are parted. Conſider,
therefore, you will be more at eafe when you
are at a greater diſtance, and will have at leaſt
the conſolation to think you have ſecured, by
your departure, the peace and reputation of her
you love. Fly, then, this hour, this moment;
nor let ſo great a ſacrifice be made too ſlow.
Hafte, left even your delay ſhould cauſe the ruin
of her to whoſe ſecurity you have devoted your-
felf.”-“What! (ſaid he in a kind of fury) fhall I
depart without ſeeing her? Not ſee her again!
We

E LO I S A. 295
We will both periſh if it muſt be fo. I know
ſhe will not think much to die with me. But I
will ſee her, whatever may be the conſequence;
I will lay both my heart and life at her feet, before
I am thus torn from myſelf.”-It was not diffi-
cult for me to ſhow the abſurdity and cruelty
of ſuch a project. But the exclamation of,
Shall I ſee her no more! repeated in the moſt
doleful accents, ſeemed to demand of me fome
conſolation. “Why (ſaid I to him) do you make
your misfortunes worſe than they really are ?
Why do you give up hopes which Eloiſa herſelf
entertains? Can you believe ſhe would think
of thus parting with you, if the conceived you
were not to meet again? No, my friend, you
ought to know the heart of Eloiſa better. You
ought to know how much ſhe prefers her love
to her life. I fear, alas ! too much 1 fear (this
I confeſs I have added) ſhe will ſoon prefer it to
every thing. Believe me, Eloiſa lives in hopes,
ſince ſhe conſents to live: believe me, the cau-
tions which her prudence dictates regard your-
felf more than you are aware of; and that the
is more careful of herſelf on your account than
her own.” I then took out your laſt letter ; and,
ſhowing him what were the hopes of a fond de-
luded girl, animated his, by the gentle warmth
of her tender expreſſions. Theſe few lines
ſeemed to diſtil a falutary balfam into his en-
venomed heart. His looks ſoftened, the tears
roſe into his eyes, and I had the ſatisfaction of
ſeeing a ſorrowful tenderneſs ſucceed by degrees
N 4
to
296
E L O IS A.


to his former deſpair ; but your laſt words, ſo
moving, fo heart, felt, we shall not live long
aſunder, made him burſt into a flood of tears.
5 No, Eloiſa, my dear Eloiſa! (faid he, raiſing his
voice, and kiſſing the letter) no, we ſhall not live
long aſunder. Heaven will either join our hands
in this world, or unite our hearts in thoſe eter-
nal manfions where there is no more ſeparation.'
He was now in the temper of mind I wiſhed
to have him; his former fullen ſorrow
gave
me much uneaſineſs. I ſhould not have per-
mitted him to depart in that diſpoſition ; but,
as ſoon as I ſaw him weep, and heard your en-
dearing name come from his lips with ſo much
tenderneſs, I was no longer in apprehenſions for
his life; for nothing is leſs tender than deſpair.
The ſoft emotions of his heart now dicated
an objection which I did not foreſee. He ſpoke
to me of the condition in which you lately fuf-
pected yourſelf to be; proteſting he would rather
die a thouſand deaths than abandon you to thoſe
perils that threatened you. I took care to ſay
nothing about the accident of your fall; telling
him only that your expectations had been diſ-
appointed, and that there were no hopes of that
kind. To which he anſwered with a deep figh,
" There will remain then no living monument of
my happineſs; it is gone, and”-Here his heart
ſeemed too full for expreſſion.
After this, it remained only for me to execute
the latter part of your commiffion; and for
which I did not think, after the intimacy in which
you
E LOI S A,
297
him from you.
you lived, that any preparation or apology was
neceſſary. I mildly reproached him, therefore,
for the little care he had taken of his affairs;
telling him, that you feared it would be long be-
fore he would be more careful, and that in the
mean time you commanded him to take care of
himſelf for your fake, and to that end to ac-
cept of that ſmall preſent which I had to make
you. He ſeemed neither offended at
the offer, nor to make a merit of the accept-
ance; telling me only, that you well knew no.
thing could come from you that he ſhould not
receive with tranſport; but that your precaution
was ſuperfluous, a little houſe which he had
ſold at Grandſon, the remains of his ſmall pa-
trimony, having furniſhed him with more money
than he ever had at any one time in his life. “Be-
fides (added he) I poſſeſs fome talents, from
which I can always draw a ſubſiſtence. I ſhall
be happy to find, in the exerciſe of them, ſome
diverſion from my misfortunes; and, ſince I
have ſeen the uſe to which Eloiſa puts her fu-
perfluities, I regard it as a treaſure facred to the
widow and the orphan, whom humanity will
never permit me to neglect." I reminded him of
his former journey to the Valais, your letter,
and the preciſeneſs of your
orders. 66. The ſame
reaſons (ſaid I) now ſubſiſt”-“. The ſame! (in-
terrupted he), in an angry tone. The penalty
of my refuſal then, was never to ſee her more;
if ſhe will permit me now to ſtay, I will uſe it
on thoſe conditions. If I obey, why does ſhe
punith

N5
298
E LO I SA.
puniſh me? If I do not, what can ſhe do worſe
than puniſh me? The ſame reaſons! (re-
peated he, with ſome impatience.) Our union then
was juſt commenced; it is now at an end, and I
part from her perhaps for ever; there is no
longer any connexion between us, we are going
to be torn aſunder.” He pronounced theſe laſt
words with ſuch an oppreſſion of heart, that I
trembled with the apprehenſions of his relapfing
into that difpofition of mind, out of which I
had taken ſo much pains to extricate him. I af-
fected therefore an air of gaiety, and told him,
with a ſmile, that he was a child, and that I
would be his tutor, as he ſtood greatly in need
of one. “ I will take charge of this (ſaid I) and,
that we may diſpoſe of it properly in the bufi-
neſs we ſhall engage in together, I infiſt upon
knowing particularly the ſtate of your affairs.” I
endeavoured thus to divert his melancholy ideas
by that of a familiar correſpondence to be kept
up in his abſence; and he, whoſe fimpli-
city only fought to lay hold of every twig,
as one may ſay, that grew near to you, came
eaſily into my deſign. We accordingly ſettled
the addreſs of our letters; and, as the talking
about theſe regulations was agreeable to him, I
prolonged our diſcourſe on this ſubject till Mr.
Orbe arrived; who, on his enterance, made a
fignal to me that every thing was ready. Your
friend, who eafily underſtood what was meantg.
then deſired leave to write to you; but I would
not permit him. I ſaw that an exceſs of ten-
derneſs

Ε Ι Ο Υ S Α.
299
had got
derneſs might overcome him, and that, after he
half way through his letter, we might
find it impoſſible to prevail on him to depart.
" Delays (ſaid I) are dangerous; make haſte to
go; and, when you are arrived at the end of
your firſt ſtage, you may write more at your
eaſe.” In ſaying this, I made a ſign to Mr. Orbe;
advanced towards him with a heavy heart, and
took leave. How he left me I know not,
my tears preventing my fight; my head began
alſo to turn round, and it was high time my part
was ended.
A moment afterwards, however, I heard
them go haſtily down ſtairs ; on which I went
to the ſtair-head, to look after them. There I ſaw
your friend, in all his extravagance, throw him-
felf on his knees, in the middle of the ſtairs, and
kiſs the ſteps; while Mr. Orbe had much to do
to raiſe him from the cold ſtones, which he
preſſed with his lips, and to which he clung
with his hands, fighing moſt bitterly. For my
part, I retired, that I might not expoſe myſelf
to the ſervants.
Soon after, Mr. Orbe returned, and, with tears
in his eyes, told me it was all over, and that
they were ſet out. It ſeeins the chaife was ready
at his door, where Lord B-was waiting for
our friend, whom, when his lordthip ſaw, he
ran to meet him, and, with the moſt cordial
expreſſions of friendſhip, placed him in the
chaife, which drove off with them like light-
ning.
N 6
LETTER

300
E LO IS A.
LETTER LXVI.
TO ELOISA.

,
down my pen! I heſitate in the firſt
pe-
riod: I know not how, I know not where, to
begin. And yet it is to Eloiſa I would write.
'To what a ſituation am I reduced ? That time
is, alas! no more, when a thouſand pleaſing ideas
crowded on my mind, and flowed inexhauſtibly
from my pen. Thoſe delightful moments of
mutual confidence, and ſweet effufion of fouls,
are gone and fled.
. We live no longer for each
other--We are no more the ſame perſons, and
I no longer know to whom I am writing. Will
you deign to receive, to read my letters?
Will you think them fufficiently cautious and
reſerved ? Shall I preſerve the ſtile of our for-
mer intimacy? May I venture to ſpeak of a
paſſion extinguiſhed or deſpiſed ? and am I not
to make as diſtant approaches to Eloiſa, as on
the firſt day I preſumed to write ? Good hea-
vens ! how different are the tedious hours of
my
prefent wretchedneſs from thoſe happy, thoſe de-
lightful days I have paſſed! I but begin to exiſt,
and am funk into nothing. The hopes of life that
warmed my heart are fled, and the gloomy pro-
ſpect of death is all before me. Three revolv..
ing years have circumſcribed the happineſs of my
exiſtence. Would to God I had ended them, ere
I had

E LO I SA.
301
I had known the miſery of thus ſurviving my-
felf! Oh! that I had obeyed the foreboding dic-
tates of my heart, when once thoſe rapid mo-
ments of delight were paſſed, and life preſented
nothing to my view for which I could wiſh to
live! Better, doubtleſs, had it been that I had
breathed no longer, or that thoſe three years
of life and love I enjoyed could be extracted
from the number of my days. Happier is it
never to taſte of felicity than to have it fnatched
from our enjoyment. Had I been exempted
from that fatal interval of happineſs; had I ef-
caped the firſt enchanting look that animated
me to a new life, I might ſtill have preſerved
my reaſon, have ſtill been fit to diſcharge the
common offices of life, and have diſplayed per-
haps ſome virtues in the duration of an inſipid
exiſtence. One moment of deluſion hath change
ed the ſcene. I have ventured to contemplate
with rapture an object on which I ſhould not
have dared to look. This preſumption has pro-
duced its neceſſary effect, and led me inſenſibly
toruin; I am become a frantick, delirious wretch,
a ſervile diſpirited being, that drags along his
chain in ignominy and deſpair.
How idle are the dreams of a diſtracted mind!
How flattering, how deceitful the wiſhes of the
wandering heart, that diſclaims them as ſoon as
fuggeſted! To what end do we ſeek, againſt
real evils, imaginary remedies, that are no ſooner
thought of than rejected? Who, that hath ſeen
and felt the power of love, can think it poſible
there


302
E LO IS A.
there ſhould be a happineſs which I would pur-
chaſe at the price of the ſupreme felicity of my
firſt tranſports ? No, it is impoſſible--Let heaven
deny me all other bleſſings; let me be wretched,
but I will indulge myſelf in the rememberance
of pleaſures paſt. Better is it to enjoy the re-
collection of my paſt happineſs, though embitter-
ed with preſent forrow, than to be for ever happy
without Eloiſa. Come then, dear image of my
love, thou idol of my ſoul! come, and take pof-
feffion of a heart that beats only for thee; live
in exile, alleviate my ſorrows, re-kindle my ex-
tinguiſhed hopes, and prevent me from falling
into deſpair. This unfortunate breaſt ſhall ever
be thy inviolable ſanctuary, whence neither the
powers of heaven or earth ſhall ever expel thee.
If I am loft to happineſs, I am not to love,
which renders me worthy of it-a love irreſiſt-
able as the charms that gave it birth. Raiſed on
the immoveable foundations of merit and virtue,
it can never ceaſe to exiſt in a mind that is im-
mortal : it needs no future hope for its fupport,
the rememberance of what is paſt will ſuſtain it
for ever.
But, how is it with my Eloiſa? With her
who was once fo fenfible of love? Can that
ſacred flame be extinguiſhed in her pure and ſuf-
ceptible breaſt? Can ſhe have loſt her taſte
for thoſe celeſtial raptures, which ſhe alone
could feel or inſpire ? --She drives me from her
preſence without pity, baniſhes me with ſhame,
gives me up to deſpair, and ſees not, through the

errour
E LO I S A.
303
errour which miſleads her, that in making me
miſerable, ſhe robs herſelf of happineſs. Be-
lieve me, my Eloiſa, you will in vain ſeek ano-
ther heart a-kin to your's. A thouſand will
doubtleſs adore you, but mine only is capable
of returning your love.
Tell me, tell me fincerely, thou deceived or
deceiving girl, what is become of thoſe pro-
jects we formed together in ſecret ? Where are
fled thoſe vain hopes, with which you ſo often
flattered my credulous ſimplicity? What ſay
you now to that ſacred union my heart panted
after, the ſecret cauſe of ſo many ardent fighs,
and with which your lips and your pen have ſo
often indulged my hopes ? I preſumed, alas!
on your promiſes, to aſpire to the facred name
of huſband, and thought myſelf already the moſt
fortunate of men. Say, cruel Eloifa, did you
not flatter me thus only to render my diſappoint-
ment the more mortifying, my affliction the
more ſevere? Have I incurred this misfortune
by my own fault? Have I been wanting in
obedience, in tractability, in diſcretion ? Have
you ever ſeen me ſo weak and abſurd in my de-
fires, as to deſerve to be thus rejected ? or have
I ever preferred their gratification to your ab-
ſolute commands ? I have done, I have ſtudied,
every thing to pleaſe you, and yet you renounce
You undertook to make me happy, and
you make me miſerable. Ungrateful woman!
account with me for the truſt I depoſited in your
hands; account with me for my heart, after



me.
having

304
E LO I S A.
having ſeduced it by a ſupreme felicity that raiſed
me to an equality with angels. I envied not
their lot; I was the happieſt of beings; though
now,
alas! I am the moſt miſerable! A ſingle
moment has deprived me of every thing, and
I am fallen inſtantaneouſly from the pinnacle of
happineſs to the loweſt gulf of miſery. I touch
even yet the felicity that eſcapes me; I have ſtill
hold of it, and loſe it for ever.-
--Ah,
could I but believe! if the remains of falſe
hope did not flatter--Why, why, ye rocks of
Meillerie, whoſe precipices my wandering eye
ſo often meaſured, why did you not affiſt my
deſpair ! I had then leſs regretted life, ere enjoy-
ment had taught me its value.
L E T T E R LXVII.
LORD B--
TO CLARA.
EING arrived at Beſançon, I take the firſt
opportunity to write to you the particulars of
our journey; which, if not paſſed very agree.
ably, has at leaſt been attended with no ill ac-
cident. Your friend is as well in health as
can be expected for a man ſo ſick at heart. He
even endeavours to affect outwardly a kind of
tranquillity, to which his heart is a ſtranger; and
being aſhamed of his weakneſs, lays himſelf
under a good deal of reſtraint before me. This
only ſerved, however, to betray the ſecret agi-
tations of his mind; and though I ſeemed to,
be




E L O IS A.
305
be deceived by his behaviour, it was only to
leave him to his own thoughts, with the view
of oppoſing one part of his faculties to repreſs
the effect of the other.
He was much dejected during the firſt day's
journey, which I made a ſhort one, as I ſaw
the expedition of our travelling increaſed his
uneaſineſs. A profound filence was obſerved on
both ſides; on my part, the rather, as I am ſen-
ſible that ill-timed condolance only embitters
violent affliction. Coldneſs and indifference eaſily
find words, but ſilent ſorrow is in thoſe caſes the
language of true friendſhip. I began yeſterday
to perceive the firſt ſparks of the fury which na-
turally ſucceeded. At dinner-time we had been
ſcarce a quarter of an hour out of the chaiſe,
before he turned to me, with an air of impa-
tience, and aſked me, with an ill-natured ſmile,
" Why we reſted a moment fo near Eloiſa?” In
the evening he affected to be very talkative, but
without ſaying a word of her, aſking the ſame
queſtions over and over again. He wanted one
moment to know if we had reached the French
territories, and the next if we ſhould ſoon arrive
at Vevai. The firſt thing he did at every ſtage
was to ſit down to write a letter, which he
rumpled up, or tore to pieces, the moment after-
wards. I picked up two or three of theſe blotted
fragments, by which you may judge of the
ſituation of his mind. I believe, however, he
has by this time written a complete letter.
The extravagance which theſe firſt fymptoms of
paſſion




306
E L O IS A.
paſſion threaten is eaſily foreſeen; but I cannot
pretend to gueſs what will be its effect, or how
long may be its continuance; theſe depend on a
combination of circumſtances, as the character
of the man, the degree and nature of his paſſion,
and of a thouſand things which no human ſaga-
city can determine. For my part, I can anſwer
for the tranſports of his rage, but not for the
fullenneſs of his defpair? for, do as we will,
every man has always his life in his own power.
I flatter myſelf, however, that he will pay a due
regard to his life and my aſſiduities; though I
depend leſs on the effects of my zeal, which ne-
vertheleſs ſhall be exerted to the utmoſt, than on
the nature of his paſſion, and the character of his
miſtreſs. The mind cannot long employ itſelf
in contemplating a beloved object, without con-
tracting a diſpoſition ſimilar to what it admires.
The extreme ſweetneſs of Eloiſa's temper muſt,
therefore, have ſoftened the harſh nefs of that
paſſion it inſpired: and I doubt not but love, in a
man of ſuch lively paſſions, is always more active
and violent than it would be in others. I have
ſome dependence alſo upon his heart: it was
formed to ſtruggle and to conquer. A love like
his is not ſo much a weakneſs, as ſtrength badly
exerted. A violent and unhappy paffion may
ſmother for a time, perhaps for ever, ſome of his
faculties; but it is itſelf a proof of their excel-
lence, and of the uſe that may be made of them
to cultivate his underſtanding. The ſublimeſt
wiſdom is attained by the fame vigour of mind


which

E LO I SA.
307
which gives riſe to the violent paſſions; and phi-
loſophy muſt be attained by as fervent a zeal as
that which we feel for a miſtreſs
Be affured, lovely Clara, I intereſt myſelf no
leſs than you in the fate of this unfortunate
couple; not out of a ſentiment of compaſſion,
which might perhaps be only a weakneſs, but
out of a due regard to juſtice and the fitneſs of
things, which require that every one ſhould be
diſpoſed of in a manner the moſt advantageous
to himſelf and to ſociety. Their amiable minds
were doubtleſs formed by the hand of nature
for each other. In a peaceful and happy union,
at liberty to exert their talents, and diſplay their
virtues, they might have enlightened the world
with the ſplendour of their example. Why ſhould
an abſurd prejudice then croſs the eternal direc-
tions of nature, and ſubvert the harmony of
thinking Beings? Why ſhould the vanity of a
cruel father thus hide their light under a bushel,
and wound thoſe tender and benevolent hearts,
which were formed to footh the pangs of others ?
Are not the ties of marriage the moſt free, as
as well as the moſt facred of all engagements ?
Yes, every law to lay a conſtraint on them is
unjuſt. Every father who preſumes to form
or break them is a tyrant, This chaſte and holy
tie of nature is neither ſubjected to fovereign
power nor parental authority; but to the au-
thority only of that common parent who hath
the power over our hearts, and, by commanding



their

308
E LO IS A.
their union, can at the ſame time make them
love each other.
To what end are natural conveniencies fa-
crificed to thoſe of opinion? A diſagreement in
rank and fortune loſes itſelf in marriage, nor
doth an equality therein tend to make the mar-
riage ſtate happy; but a diſagreement in perſon
and diſpoſition ever remains, and is that which
makes it neceſſarily miſerable*. A child, that
has no rule of conduct but her fond paſſion,
will frequently make a bad choice, but the fa-
ther, who has no other rule for his than the opinion
of the world, will make a worſe. A daughter
may want knowledge and experience to form a
proper judgement of the diſcretion and conduct
of men; a good father ought doubtleſs in that
cafe to adviſe her. He has a right, it is even his
duty to ſay, “ My child, this is a man of pro-
bity, or that man is aknave; this is a man of ſenſe,

or
* In ſome countries, agreement in rank and fortune is
held ſo far preferable to that of nature and the heart, that
an inequality in the former is judged ſufficient to preventor
diffolve the moſt happy marriages, without any regard to
the honour of the unfortunate lovers, who are daily made
a ſacrifice to fuch odious prejudices. I heard once a cele.
brated ca uſe pleaded before the Parliament at Paris,
wherein the diſtinction of rank publickly and infolently
oppoſed honeſty, juſtice, and the conjugal vow; the un-
worthy parent, who gained his cauſe, difinheriting his
fon, becauſe he refuſed to act the part of a villain. The
fair fex are, in that polite country, ſubjected in the
greateſt degree to the tyranny of the laws. Is it to be
wondered at that they fo amply ayenge themſelves in the
looſeneſs of their manners?



E LO IS A.
30g
or that is a fool.” Thus far ought the father to
judge, the reſt of right belongs to the daughter,
The tyrants, who exclaim that ſuch maxims
tend to diſturb the good order of ſociety, are
thoſe who, themſelves, diſturb it moſt.
Let men rank according to their merit; and
let thoſe hearts be united that are objects of each
other's choice. This is what the good order of
ſociety requires; thoſe who would confine it to
birth or riches are the real diſturbers of that
order; and ought to be rendered odious to the
publick, or puniſhed as enemies to fociety.
Juſtice requires that ſuch abuſes ſhould be re-
dreſſed: it is the duty of every man to ſet him-
ſelf in oppoſition to violence, and to ſtrengthen
the bonds of ſociety. You may be aſſured, there-
fore, that, if it be poflible for me to effect the
union of theſe two lovers, in fpite of an obſti-
nate father, I ſhall put in execution the intention
of heaven, without troubling myſelf about the
approbation of men.
You, amiable Clara, are happy in having a
father, who doth not preſume to judge better
than yourſelf of the means of your own happi-
neſs. It is not, however, from his greater ſaga-
city, perhaps, nor from his fuperiour tenderneſs,
that he leaves you thus 'miſtreſs of your own
choice: but what ſignifies the cauſe if the effect
be the ſame? or whether, in the liberty he al-
lows you, his indolence ſupplies the place of his
reaſon? Far from abuſing that liberty, the
choice you have made, at twenty years of age,
must


I

310
E
E L O IS A.
muſt meet with the approbation of the moſt diſ-
crete parent. Your heart, taken up by a friend-
ſhip without example, had little room for love.
You have yet ſubſtituted in its place every thing
that can ſupply the want of paffion; and though
leſs a lover than a friend, if you ſhould not happen
to prove the fondeſt wife, you will be certainly
the moſt virtuous; that union, which prudence
dictated, will increaſe with age, and end but
with life. The impulſe of the heart is more
blind, but it is more irreſiſtable; and the way to
ruin, is to lay one's ſelf under the cruel neceflity
of oppoſing it. Happy are thoſe whom love unites
as prudence dictates, who have no obſtacles to
furmount, nor difficulties to encounter! Such
would be our friends, were it not for the unrea-
fonable prejudice of an obſtinate father. And
ſuch, notwithſtanding, may they be yet, if one
of them be well adviſed. by your's and Eloiſa's
example, we may be equally convinced that it
belongs only to the parties themſelves to judge
how far they will be reciprocally agreeable. If
love be not predominant, prudence only directs
the choice, as in your caſe; if paffion prevail,
nature has already determined it, as in Eloiſa's.
So facred alſo is the law of nature, that no hu-
man being is permitted to tranſgreſs it, or can
tranſgreſs it with impunity; nor can any con-
fideration of rank or fortune abrogate it, without
involving mankind in guilt and misfortune.
Though the winter be pretty far advanced,
and I am obliged to go to Rome, I ſhall not

leave

E L OIS A.
311
leave our friend till I have brought him to ſuch
a conſiſtency of temper that I may ſafely truſt
him with himſelf. I ſhall be tender of him, as
well on his own account, as becauſe you have
entruſted him to my care. If I cannot make
him happy, I will endeavour, at leaſt, to make
him prudent; and to prevail on him to bear the
evils of humanity like a man. I purpoſe to ſpend
a fortnight with him here; in which time I hope
to hear from you and Eloiſa; and that you will
both aſlift me in binding up the wounds of a
broken heart, as yet unaffected by the voice of
reaſon, unleſs it ſpeak in the language of the
paſſions.
Encloſed is a letter for your friend. I beg you
will not truſt it to a meſſenger, but give it her
with your own hands.
FRAGMENTS
WHY
Annexed to the preceding Letter.
HY was I not permitted to ſee you be-
fore my departure? You were afraid
our parting would be fatal! Tender Eloiſa! be
comforted.--I am well-I am at eaſe-I live--I
think of you—-I think of the time when I was
dear to you--My heart is a little oppreſſed-
The chaiſe has made me giddy-My ſpirits
are quite ſunk-I cannot write much to-day;
to-morrow, perhaps, I ſhall be able to--or I
fhall have no more occafion-
Whither

312
E L O IS A.

Whither do theſe horſes hurry me ſo faſt?
Where is this man, who calls himſelf my friend,
going to carry me? Is it from Eloiſa? Is it
by her order that I am deſpatched ſo precipitately
away? Miſtaken Eloiſa!--How rapidly does
the chaiſe move! Whence come I? Where
am I going? Why all this expedition? Are
ye afraid, ye perſecutors, that I Thould not Ay
faſt enough to ruin? O friendſhip! O love!
is this your contrivance! are theſe your fa-
vours?
Have
you
conſulted
your
heart in driving me
from you ſo ſuddenly? Are you capable, tell
me Eloiſa, are you capable of renouncing me
for ever? No, that tender heart ſtill loves me,
I
know it does--In ſpite of fortune, in ſpite of
itſelf, it will love me for ever.--I ſee it, you
have permitted yourſelf to be perſuaded*-
What laſting repentance are you preparing for
yourſelf!Alas! it will be too late how!
forget me! I did not know your heart!--
Oh! conſider yourſelf, conſider me, confider--
hear me: it is yet time enough-'twas cruel to
baniſh me: I Ay from you ſwifter than the wind.
Say but the word, but one word, and I re-
turn quicker than lightening. Say but one
word, and we will be united for ever.
We
ought to bem-We will be-Alas! I com-
plain to the winds--I am going again---I
am
* Itappears by the ſequel, that theſe ſuſpicions fell upon
Lord B-, and that Clara applies them to herſelf,



E LO I SA.
313
am going to live and die far from Eloiſa-
Live! did I ſay? It is impoſſible-----
L E T T E R LXVIII.
LORD B
TO ELOISA.
YOUR
my road
YOUR couſin will give you information
concerning your friend. I imagine, alſo,
he has written to you himſelf by the poſt. Firſt
fatisfy your impatience on that head, that you
may afterwards peruſe this letter with compo-
ſure; for I give you previous notice, the ſub-
ject of it demands your attention. I know man-
kind; I have lived a long time in a few years,
and have acquired experience at my own coft;
the progreſs of the paſſions having been
to philofophy. But of all the extraordinary things
that have come within the compaſs of my ob-
ſervation, I never ſaw any thing equal to you
and your lover. It is not that either the one or
the other has any peculiar characteriſtick, where
by you might at firſt be known and diſtinguiſhed,
and through the want of which your's might well
enough be miſtaken, by a ſuperficial obſerver,
for minds of a common and ordinary caſt. You
are eminently diftinguiſhed, however, by this very
difficulty of diftinguiſhing you, and in that the
features of a common model, fome one of which
is wanting in every individual, are all equally
perfect in you. Thus every printed copy that
comes from the preſs has its peculiar defects,
which diſtinguiſh it from the reſt of its kind; and
VOL. I.
if
314
E L O I SA.
if there ſhould happen to come one quite perfect,
however beautiful it might appear at firſt ſight,
it muſt be accurately examined to know its per-
fection. The firſt time I ſaw your lover, I was
ftruck as with ſomething new; my good opinion
of him increaſing daily, in proportion as I found
cauſe. With regard to yourſelf, it was quite
otherwiſe; and the ſentiments you inſpired were
ſuch as I miftook for thoſe of love. The im-
preſſion you made on me, however, did not
ariſe fo much from a difference of ſex, as from
a characteriſtical perfection, of which the heart
cannot be inſenſible, though love were out of
the queſtion. I can ſee what you would be,
though, without your friend; but I cannot pre-
tend to ſay what he would prove without you.
Many men may reſemble him, but there is but
one Eloiſa in the world.
After doing you an
injury, which I ſhall never forgive myſelf, your
letter foon convinced me of the nature of my
ſentiments concerning you. I found I was not
jealous, and conſequently not in love. I ſaw
that you were too amiable for me; that you de-
ſerved the firſt-fruits of the heart, and that mine
was unworthy of you.
From that moment I took an intereſt in your
mutual happineſs, which will never abate; and,
imagining it in my power to remove every ob-
ſtacle to your bliſs, I made an indiſcrete appli-
cation to your father; the bad ſucceſs of which
is one motive to animate my zeal in your
favour. Indulge me ſo far as to hear me, and
perhaps


E LO IS A.
315
perhaps I may yet repair the miſchief I have oc-
cafioned. Examine your heart, Eloifa, and ſee
if it be poſſible for you to extinguiſh the flame
with which it burns. There was a time, per-
haps, when you would have ſtopped its progreſs;
but if Eloiſa fell from a ſtate of innocence,
how will the reſiſt after her fall? How will
the be able to withſtand the power of love
triumphing over her weakneſs, and armed with
the dangerous weapons of her paſt pleaſures?
Let not your heart impoſe on itſelf; but re-
nounce the fallacious preſumption that ſeduces
you-you are undone, if you are ſtill to com-
bat with love: you will be debaſed and van-
quiſhed, while a ſenſe of your debaſement will
by degrees ſtifle all your virtues. Love has in-
ſinuated itſelf too far into your mind, for you
ever to drive it thence.
It has eaten its way,
has penetrated into its inmoſt receſſes, like a
corroſive menftruum, whoſe impreſſions you will
never be able to efface, without deſtroying at
the ſame time all that virtuous fenfibility you
received from the hand of nature--root out love
from your mind, and you will have nothing left
in it truely eſtimable. Incapable of changing
the condition of your heart, what then remains
for you to do? Nothing fure but to render your
union legitimate. To this end, I will propoſe
to you the only method which now offers. Make
uſe of it while it is yet time, and add to inno-
cence and virtue the exerciſe of that good ſenſe
with which heaven has endowed you.
I have

O 2
316
E L I S A.
I have a pretty confiderable eſtate in York-
fhire, which has been long in our family, and
was the ſeat of my anceſtors. The manfion-
houſe is old, but in good condition, and conve-
nient; the country about it is ſolitary, but plea-
fant and variegated. The river Ouſe, which
runs through the park, preſents at once a charm-
ing proſpect to the view, and affords a commo-
dious tranſport for all kinds of neceſſaries. The
income of the eſtate is ſufficient for the reputa-
ble maintenance of the maſter, and might be
doubled in its value, if under his immediate in-
ſpection. Hateful prepoffeffion, and blind pre-
judices harbour not in that delightful country;
the peaceful inhabitant of which preſerves the
ancient manners, whoſe fimplicity preſents to
you a picture of the Valois, ſuch as is deſcribed
by the affecting touches of your lover's pen.
This eſtate, Eloiſa, is your’s, if you will deign to
accept it, and reſide there with your friend.
There may you ſee accompliſhed all thoſe tender
wiſhes with which he concludes the letter I have
juft hinted at.
Come, amiable and faithful pair! the choiceſt
pattern of true lovers; come, and take poſſeſſion
of a ſpot deſtined for the aſylum of love and
innocence. Come, and, in the face of God
and man, confirm the gentle ties by which you
are united. Come, and let your example do
honour to a country where your virtues will be
revered, and where the people, bred up in inno-
cence and fimplicity, will be proud to imitate
them.
E L OIS-A.
them. May you enjoy in that peaceful retire-
ment, and with the ſame ſentiments that united
you, the happineſs of fouls truely refined! may
your
chafte embraces be crowned with offspring
reſembling yourſelves ! may you ſee your days
lengthened to an honourable old age, and peace-
fully end them in the arms of your children!
and may our poſterity, in relating the ſtory of
your union, affectingly repeat, “ Here was the
afylum of innocence, this was the refuge of the two
lovers."
Your deſtiny, Eloiſa, is in your own power.
Weigh maturely the propofal I make to you,
and examine only the main point; for, as to
the reſt, I ſhall take upon myſelf to ſettle every
thing with your friend, and make firm and ir-
revocable the engagement into which I am
willing to enter. I ſhall take charge alſo for
the ſecurity of your departure, and the care
of your perfon till your arrival. There you
may be immediately married without difficul-
ty: for with us, a girl that is marriageable
has no need of any one's conſent to diſpoſe of
herſelf as ſhe pleaſes*. Our laws contradict
not thoſe of nature; and although there fome-
times reſult from their agreement fome flight
inconveniencies, they are nothing compared
to thoſe it prevents.
I have left at Vevai
my valet-de-chambre, a man of probity and
courage,
* It is to be obſerved, that theſe letters were written be.
fore the act of parliament, called the marriage aft, had
pafled in England.




O 3
318
E LO IS A.
courage, as well as diſcreet, and of approved
fidelity. You may eaſily concert matters with
him, either by word of mouth, or by letter,
with the affiftance of Reggianino, without the
latter's knowing any thing of the affair. When
every thing is ready, we will ſet out to meet
you,
and
you Mhall not quit your father's houſe
but under the conduct and protection of your
huſband.
I now leave you to think of my propofal:
but give me leave to ſay again, beware of the
conſequences of prejudice, and thoſe falſe ſcru-
ples, which too often, under the pretext of
honour, conduct us to vice. I foreſee what will
happen to you if you reject my offers. The ty-
ranny of an obftinate father will plunge you into
an abyfs you will not be aware of till after your
fall. Your gentleneſs of diſpoſition degenerates
ſometimes into timidity: you will fall a facri-
fice to the chimerical diſtinction of rank*; you
will be forced into an engagement which your
heart will abhor. The world may approve your
conduct, but your heart will daily give the lie to
publick opinion; you will be honoured, and yet
contemptible in your own opinion. How much
better is it to paſs your life in obſcurity and
virtue!
P.S.-Being in doubt concerning your reſolu-
tion, I write to you, unknown to your friend;
left
* Chimerical diſtinction of rank! It is an Engliſh peer
that talks (thus. Can there be any reality in all this?
Reader, what think you of it?

E L O IS A.
319
left a refuſal on your part ſhould ruin at once the
expectations I have formed of the good effects
my care and advice may have upon his mind.
LETTER LXIX.
ELOISA TO CLARA.
O
H! my dear, in what trouble did you
leave me laſt night! and what a night did
I paſs in reflecting on the contents of that fatal
letter! No, never did ſo powerful a temptation
affail my heart; never did I experience the like
agitation of mind': nor was ever more at a loſs
to compoſe it. Hitherto, reaſon has darted ſome
ray of light to direct my ſteps; on every em-
barraffing occafion, I have been able to diſcern
the moſt virtuous part, and immediately to em-
brace it. But now, debaſed and overcome, my
reſolution does nothing but fluctuate between
contending paſſions : my weak heart has now
no other choice than its foibles; and ſo deplor-
able is my blindneſs that, if I even chooſe for the
beít, my choice is not directed by virtue, and
therefore I feel no leſs remorſe than if I had
done ill. You know who my father deſigns for
my huſband : you know, alſo, to whom the in-
diffoluble bond of love has united me: would
I be virtuous, filial obedience and plighted vows
impofe on me contradictory obligations. Shall
I follow the inclinations of my heart?
Shall I pay a greater regard to a lover
than

320
E L I S A.
than to a parent ? In liftening to the voice of
either love or nature, I cannot avoid driving the
one or the other to deſpair. In facrificing my-
ſelf to my duty, I muſt either way be guilty of a
crime, and which ever party I take, I muſt die
criminal and unhappy.
Ah, my dear friend ! you, who have been my
conſtant and only reſource, who have ſaved me
fo often from death and deſpair, oh! think of my
preſent horrible ſtate of mind; for never were
your kind offices of confolation more neceſſary,
You know I have liſtened to your advice, that
I have followed your counſel: you have ſeen
how far, at the expenſe of my happineſs, I have
paid a deference to the voice of friendſhip.
Take pity on me, then, in the trouble you have
brought upon me. As you have begun, conti-
nue to affiſt me; ſuſtain my drooping ſpirits,
and think for her who can no longer think for
herſelf. You can read this heart that loves you,
you know it better than 1; learn then my diffi-
culties, and chooſe in my ſtead, ſince I have
no longer the power to will, nor the reaſon to
chooſe for myſelf.
Read over the letter of that generous Eng-
lifhman: read it, my dear, again and again,
Are you not affected by the charming picture he
has drawn of that happineſs which love, peace,
and virtue have yet in ſtore for your friend?
How raviſhing that union of ſouls! What in-
expreſible delight it affords, even in the midſt of
remorfe. Heavens ! how would my heart re-


joice
E LO IS A.
321

joice in conjugal felicity! And is innocence
and happineſs yet in my power! May I hope
to expire with love and joy, in the embraces of
a beloved huſband, amidſt the dear pledges of his
tenderneſs! Shall I heſitate then a moment,
and not fly to repair my faults in the arms of
him who ſeduced me to commit them? Why
do I delay to become a virtuous and charte ino-
ther of an endearing family ? --Oh! that my pa-
rents could but ſee me thus raiſed out of my
degeneracy! That they inight but ſee how well
I would acquit myſelf, in my turn, of thoſe fa-
cred duties they have diſcharged towards me!--
And your's! ungrateful, unnatural daughter
(might they not ſay) who ſhall diſcharge your's
to them, when you are ſo ready to forget them?
Is it by plunging a dagger into the heart of
your own mother, that you prepare to become
a mother yourſelf? Can fhe, who diſhonours
her own family, teach her children to reſpect
their’s ? Go, unworthy object of the blind fond-
neſs of your doting parents! Abandon them to
their grief for having given ycu birth; load
their old age with infamy, and bring their grey
hairs with ſorrow to the grave.
-Go, and
enjoy, if thou canſt, a happineſs purchaſed at
ſuch a price.
Good God! what horrours ſurround me!
ſhall I Ay by ſtealth from my native country, diſ-
honour my family, abandon at once father, mo-
ther, friends, relations, and even you, my dear
Clara ; you, my gentle friend, ſo well beloved of
Iny



O 5
322
E LOIS a.
my heart: you, who from our earlieſt infancy
have hardly ever been abſent from me a day-
ſhall I leave you, loſe you, never ſee you more?
-Ah, no! May never---How wretched,
how cruelly afflicted is your unhappy friend!
She ſees before her a variety of evils; and nothing
remains to yield her conſolation.-But, my mind
wanders-ſo many conflicts ſurpaſs my ſtrength,
and perplex my reaſon: I loſe at once my forti-
tude and underſtanding. I have no hope but in
you alone. Adviſe me--chooſe for me-or leave
me to periſh in perplexity and deſpair.

LET TER LXX.
ANSWER TO THE PRECEDING.
THE
HERE is too juſt cauſe, my dear Eloiſa,
for your perplexity: I foreſaw, but could
not prevent it: I feel, but cannot remove it:
nay, what is ſtill worſe in your unhappy fitu-
ation, there is no one that can extricate you but
yourſelf. Were prudence only required, friend-
Thip might poſſibly relieve your agitated mind;
were it only neceffary to choofe the good from
the evil, miſtaken paffion might be over-ruled
by diſintereſted advice. But in your caſe, what-
ever fide you take, nature both authoriſes and
condemns you; reaſon, at the ſame time, com-
mends and blames you ; duty is filent, or con-
tradicts itſelf; the conſequences are equally to
be dreaded on one part or the other; in the mean

while,
E LO I SA.
323
while, you can neither ſafely chooſe nor remain un-
determined ; you have nothing but evils to take
your choice of, and your heart is the only proper
judge which of them it can beſt ſupport. I
own, the importance of the deliberation fright-
ens, and extremely afflicts me. Whatever de-
ſtiny you prefer, it will be ſtill unworthy of
you; and, as I can neither point out your duty,
nor conduct you to happineſs, I have not the cou-
rage to decide for you. This is the firſt refuſal
you ever met with from your friend; and I feel,
by the pain it coſts me, that it will be the laſt :
but I ſhould betray your confidence, ſhouldI take
upon me to direct you in an affair, about which
prudence itſelf is filent; and in which your beſt
and only guide is your own inclination.
Blame me not wrongfully, Eloiſa, nor con-
demn me too ſoon. I know there are friends fo
circumſpect that, not to expoſe themſelves to
conſequences, they refuſe to give their advice on
difficult occaſions, and by that reſerve but in-
creaſe the danger of thoſe they ſhould ſerve. Think
me not one of thoſe; you will fee prefently if
this heart, fincerely your’s, is capable of ſuch
timid precautions : permit me, therefore, inſtead
of adviſing you in your affairs, to mention a lit-
tle of my own.
Have you never obſerved, my dear, how much
every one who knows you is attached to
perſon ?-----That a father or mother ſhould be
fond of an only daughter is not at all ſurpriſing;
that an amorous youth fhould be inflamed by
06
a lovely

your
324
E LO I SA.
a lovely object is alſo as little extraordinary;
but that, at an age of ſedateneſs and maturity,
a man of ſo cold a diſpoſition as Mr. Wolmar
ſhould be taken with you at firſt fight; that a
whole family ſhould be unanimous to idoliſe
you;
that
you
ſhould be as much the darling
of a man fo little affectionate as my father, and
perhaps more fo than any of his own children;
that friends, acquaintanee, domeſticks, neigh-
bours, that the inhabitants of a whole town,
Thould unanimouſly join in admiring and reſpect-
ing you; this, my dear, is a concurrence of
circumſtances more extraordinary; and which
could not have happened, did you not poffefs
ſomething peculiarly engaging. Do you know,
Eloiſa, what this ſomething is? It is neither
your beauty, your wit, your affability, nor
any thing that is underſtood by the talent of
pleafing: but it is that tenderneſs of heart, that
fweetneſs of diſpoſition, that has no equal:
it is the talent of loving others, my dear, that
makes you ſo univerſally beloved. Every other
charm may be withſtood, but benevolence is ir-
refiftable; and there is no method ſo ſure to ob-
tain the love of others, as that of having an af.
fection for them. There are a thouſand wo-
men more beautiful; many are as agreeable;
but you alone poſſeſs, with all that is agreeable,
that ſeducing charm, which not only pleaſes, but
affects and raviſhes every heart. It is eaſily per-
ceived that your's requeſts only to be accepted,
and the delightful ſympathy it pants after flies
to reward it in turn.
You

Ε Ι Ο Ι S A.
325

You ſee, for inſtance, with ſurpriſe, the in-
credible affection Lord Bhas for your
friend: you ſee his zeal for your happineſs; you
receive with admiration his generous offers;
you
attribute them to his virtue only. My dear
couſin, you are miſtaken. God forbid I ſhould
extenuate his Lordſhip's beneficence, or under-
value his greatneſs of ſoul! but, believe me,
his zeal, diſintereſted as it is, would be leſs fer-
vent, if under the ſame circumſtances he had to
do with different people. It is the irreſiſtable
aſcendant you and your friend have over him
that, without his perceiving it, determines his
reſolution, and makes him do that out of affec-
tion, which he imagines proceeds only from mo-
tives of generoſity. This is what always will
be effected by minds of a certain temper. They
transform, in a manner, every other into their
own likeneſs; having a ſphere of activity where-
in nothing can reſiſt their power. It is impof-
fible to know without imitating them, while
from their own ſublime elevation they attract all
that are about them. It is for this reaſon, my
dear, that neither you nor your friend will per-
haps ever know mankind; for you will rather
ſee them ſuch as you model them, than ſuch
as they are in themſelves. You will lead the
way for all thoſe among whom you live; others
will either imitate or fly from you; and perhaps
you will meet with nothing in the world fimilar
to what you have hitherto ſeen,
Let
326
E LO I SA.

Let us come now to myſelf; to me whom the
tie of confanguinity, a fimilarity of age,
and
above all, a perfect conformity of taſte and hu-
mour, with a very oppofite temperament, have
united to you from your infancy.
tor
Congiunti eran gl' alberghi,
-
Svo Ma piu congiunti i cori:
Conforme ira l'etate,
Ma 'l penſier piu conforme.
By birth in perſon cloſe allied, ob
Yet cloſer ftill in mind!
min 19VO Near in our years, yet in our thoughts
More intimately join'd,
What, think you, has been the effect of that
captivating influence, which is felt by every
one that approaches you, on her who has been
intimate with you from her childhood? Can
you think there fubfifts between us but an
ordinary connexion? Do not mine eyes com-
municate their ſparkling joy in meeting your's?
Do you not perceive in my heart the pleaſure
of partaking your pains, and lamenting with
you? Can I forget that, in the firſt tranſports
of a growing paſſion, my friendſhip was never
diſagreeable; and that the complaints of your
lover could never prevail on you to ſend me
from you, or prevent me from being a witneſs
to your weakneſs ? This, my Eloiſa, was a
critical juncture. I am ſenſible how great a
ſacrifice you made to modeſty, in making me
acquainted with an errour I happily eſcaped.


Never
E LO IS A.
327

Never ſhould I have been your confident had I
been but half your friend---no, our fouls felt
themſelves too intimately united for any thing
ever to part them.
What is it that makes the friendſhip of wo-
men, I mean of thoſe who are capable of
love, ſo lukewarm and ſhort-lived ? It is the
intereſts of love-it is the empire of beauty-
it is the jealouſy of conqueſt. Now, if any
thing of that kind could have divided us, we
ſhould have been already divided. But, were my
heart leſs inſenſible to love, were I even ignorant
that your affections are fo deeply rooted as to end
but with life, your lover is my friend, my bro-
ther: who ever knew the ties of a fincere friend-
fhip broken by thoſe of love ? As for Mr. Orbe,
he may be long enough proud of your good
opinion, before it will give me the leaſt unea-
ſineſs; nor have I any ſtronger inclination to
keep him by violence, than you have to take
him from me.
Would to heaven I could cure
you of your paſſion, at the expenſe of his !
Though I keep him with pleaſure, I ſhould with
greater pleaſure reſign him.
With regard to my perſon, I may make what
pretenſions I pleaſe to beauty; you will not
ſet yourſelf in competition with me; for I am
ſure it will never enter into your head to de-
fire to know which of us is the handſomeft. I
muſt confeſs, I have not been altogether fo
indifferent on this head; but knew how to
give place to your fuperiority, without the
leaft
328
E L O IS A.

leaſt mortification. Methinks I am rather
proud than jealous of it; for as the charms
of your features are ſuch as would not be-
come mine, they take nothing from ine, whereas
I think myſelf handſome in your beauty, ami-
able in your graces, and adorned with your ta-
lents; thus, I pride myſelf in your perfections,
and admire myſelf the moſt in you. I ſhall never
chooſe, however, to give pain on my own ac-
count; being ſufficiently handſome in myſelf
for any uſe I have for beauty. Any thing more
is needleſs; and it requires not much humility
to yield the ſuperiority to you.
You are doubtleſs impatient to know, to what
purpoſe is all this preamble. It is to this-I
cannot give you the advice you requeſt. I have
given you my reaſons for it; but, notwithſtand-
ing this, the choice you ſhall make for yourſelf
will at the ſame time be that of your friend;
for, whatever be your fortune, I am reſolved
to accompany you, and partake of it. If you
go,
If you ſtay, fo do 1. I have
formed a determined and unalterable reſolution.
It is my duty, nor ſhall any thing prevent me,
My fatal indulgence to your paſſion has been
your ruin: your deſtiny ought, therefore, to be
mine; and, as we have been inſeparable from
our cradles, we ought to be ſo to the grave.-----
I foreſee you will think this an abſurd project;
it is, however, at bottom, a more diſcreet one,
perhaps, than you may imagine: I have not the
fame motives for doubt and irreſolution as you

I follow you
have.
E LO IS A.
329

have. In the firſt place, as to my family; if
I leave an eaſy father, I leave an indifferent one,
who permits his children to dojuſt as they pleaſe,
more through neglect than indulgence : for you
know he intereſts himſelf much more in the
affairs of Europe than his own, and that his
daughter is much leſs the object of his concern
than the Pragmatick Sanction. I am beſides not
like you, an only child, and ſhall be hardly
miſſed among thoſe that remain.
It is true, I leave a treaty of marriage juſt on
the point of being brought to a concluſion.
Manco ------male, my dear; it is the affair of Mr.
Orbe, if he loves me, to conſole him ſelf for the
diſappointment For my part, although I eſteem
his character, am not without affection for his
perſon, and regret in his loſs a very honeſt man,
he is nothing to me in compariſon to Eloiſa.
Tell me, is the Soul of any ſex? I really can-
not perceive it in mine. I may have my fancies,
but very little of love. A huſband might be uſe-
ful to me; but he would never be any thing to
me but a huſband; and that a girl who is not
ugly may find every where. But, take care, my
dear couſin, although I do not heſitate, I do not
ſay that you ought not; nor would I infinuate
ſhould reſolve to do what I am reſolved
to imitate. There is a wide difference between
your duty is much feverer
than mine. You know that an unparelleled
affection for you poſſeſſes my heart, and almoſt
fifles every other ſentiment. From my infancy

that you
you and
me; and
I have
330
E LO I SA.

I have been attached to you by an habitual
and irreſiſtable impulſe; ſo that I perfectly love
no one elſe; and if I have ſome few ties of na-
ture and gratitude to break through, I ſhall be
encouraged to do it by your example. I ſhall
fay to myſelf, I have but imitated Eloiſa, and
Tall think myſelf juſtified.
B I L L E T.
ELOISA TO CLARA.

I Voder
dear Clara, and thank
you.
For once, at leaſt, I will do my
duty; and ſhall not be totally unworthy of your
friendſhip.
L E T T E R LXXI.
ELOISA TO LORD B-

YOUR Jordfhips laſt letter has affected me
in the higheſt degree with admiration and
gratitude; nor will my friend, who is honoured
with your protection, be leſs ſo, when he knows
the obligations you would have conferred on us.
The unhappy, alas! only know the value of
benevolent minds. We had before but too
many reaſons to acknowledge that of your's,
whoſe heroick virtue will never be forgotten,
though after this it cannot ſurpriſe us.
How fortunate ſhould I think myſelf to live
under the auſpices of ſo generous a friend, and
to reap from your benevolence that happineſs
which

E LO I SA.
331
which fortune has denied me.
But I ſee, my
lord, I ſee with deſpair, your good deſigns will
be fruſtrated ! my cruel deſtiny will counteract
your friendſhip; and the delightful proſpect of
the bleffings you offer to my acceptance ſerves
only to render their loſs more fenfible. You
offer a ſecure and agreeable retreat to two per-
fecuted lovers; you would render their paſſion
legitimate, their union facred; and I know that,
under your protection, I could eaſily elude the
purſuits of my irritated relations. This would
complete our love, but would it enſure our
felicity? Ah! no: if you would have Eloiſa
contented and happy, give her an aſylum yet
more ſecure, an aſylum from ſhame and re-
pentance. You anticipate our wants, and, by an
unparelleled generoſity, deprive yourſelf of your
own fortune to beſtow on us. More wealthy,
more honoured by your benevolence than my
own patrimony, I may recover every thing I
have loft, and you will condeſcend to ſupply the
place of a father.--Ah! my lord, fall I be
worthy of another father when I abandon him
whom nature gave me?
This is the fource of the reproaches my
wounded conſcience makes me, and of thoſe ſe-
cret pangs that rend my heart.
I do not enquire whether I have a right to
diſpoſe of myſelf contrary to the will of thoſe
who gave me birth; but whether I can do it
without involving them in a mortal affliction;
whether I can abandon them without bringing
them



332
E LO I S A.
them to deſpair ; whether, alas! I have a right
to take away their life who gave me mine?
How long has the virtuous mind taken upon it-
ſelf thus to balance the rights of conſanguinity
and laws of nature ? Since when has the feel-
ing heart preſumed thus nicely to diſtinguiſh
the bounds of filial gratitude? Is it not a
crime to proceed in queſtioning our duty to
its very utmoſt limits ? Will any one ſo
ſcrupulouſly enquire into its extent, unleſs
they are tempted to go beyond it? Shall
I cruelly abandon thoſe by whom I live and
breathe---thoſe who lo tenderly preſerve the life
and being they gave me--thoſe who have no
hope, no pleaſure, but in me? A father near
fixty years of age! A mother weak and lan-
guiſhing! I their only child! Shall I leave
them without help in the folitude and troubles
of old age; at a time when I ſhould exerciſe
towards them that tender follicitude they have
laviſhed on me? Shall I involve their latter
days in ſhame and ſorrow? Will not my troubled
confcience inceſſantly upbraid me, and repre-
fent my deſpairing parents breathing out their
laſt in curſes on the ungrateful daughter that
for fook and diſhonoured them ?--No, my lord,
virtue, whoſe paths I have forſaken, may in
turn abandon me, and no longer actuate my
heart; but this horrible idea will ſupply its dic-
tates, will follow, will torment me every hour
of my life, and make me miſerable, in the midit
of happineſs. In a word, if I am doomed to
be


E LO IS A.
333
be unhappy the reſt of my days, I will run the
riſque of every other remorſe ; but this is too
horrible for me to ſupport. I confeſs, I cannot
invalidate your arguments. I have but too great
an inclination to think them juft : but, my lord,
you are unmarried ; don't you think a man ought
to be a father himſelf, to adviſe the children of
others? As to me, I am determined what to
do: my parents will make me unhappy, I know
they will : but it will be leſs hard for me to ſup-
port my own miſery than the thought of hav-
ing been the cauſe of their’s; for which reaſon,
I will never forſake my father's houſe. Begone,
then, ye ſweet and flattering illuſions ! Ideas of
fo defireable a felicity! Go, vanith like a dream:
for ſuch I will ever think ye. And you, too
generous friend, lay aſide your agreeable deſigns,
and let their rememberance only remain in the
bottom of a heart, too grateful ever to forget
them. If our misfortunes, however, are not too
great to diſcourage your noble mind; if your
generoſity is not totally exhauſted, there is yet
a way to exerciſe it with reputation, and he,
whom you honour under the name of friend, may
under your care be deſerving of it. Judge not
of him by the fituation in which you now ſee
him ; his extravagance is not the effect of pufil-
łanimity, but of an ambitious and ſuſceptible diſ-
poſition making head againſt adverſity. There
is often more inſenfibility than fortitude in ap-
parent moderation : common men know no-
thing of violent forrow, nor do great paſſions

ever
X

334
E LO IS A.
ever break out in weak minds. He poſſeſſes all
that energy of ſentiment which is the charac-
teriſtick of a noble ſoul ; and which is, alas ! the
cauſe of my preſent deſpair. Your lordſhip may
indeed believe me, had he been only a common
man, Eloiſa had not been undone.
No, my lord, that ſecret prepoffeffion in his
favour, which was followed by our manifeſt
eſteem, did not deceive you. He is worthy of
all you did for him before you were acquainted
with his merit ; and you will do more for him,
if poſſible, as you know him better. Yes, be
your lordſhip his comforter, his patron, his
friend, his father; it is both for your own fake
and his I conjure you to this, he will juſtify
your confidence, he will honour your benefacti-
ons, he will practiſe your precepts, he will imi-
tate your virtues, and will learn your wiſdom.
.
Ah! my lord, if he ſhould become in your
hands what he is capable of being, you will
have reaſon to be proud of your charge.
LETTER LXXII.
FROM ELOISA.

AND do you, too, my dear friend! my
!
you come to wound
afreſh
my heart, oppreſſed already with a load of
forrow! I was prepared to bear the ſhocks of ad-
verſity; long has my foreboding heart announc-
ed their coming; and I ſhould have ſupported
them
4

E LO I SA.
335
them with patience; but you, for whom I ſuffer!
inſupportable! I am ſtruck with horrour to ſee
my forrows aggravated by one who ought to al-
leviate them. What tender conſolations did not
I promiſe myſelf to receive from you ? But all
are vaniſhed with your fortitude! How often have
I not flattered myſelf, that your magnanimity
would ſtrengthen my weakneſs; that your de-
ferts would efface my errour; and your elevated
virtues raiſed up my debaſed mind! How many
times have I not dried up my tears, ſaying to
myſelf, I ſuffer for him, it is true, but he is
worthy-I am culpable, but he is virtuous--I
have a thouſand troubles, but his conſtancy ſup-
ports me; in his love I find a recompenſe for all
my cares.
Vain imagination on the firſt tryal
thou haſt deceived me! Where is now that
ſublime paſſion which could elevate your ſenti-
ments, and diſplay your virtues ? What is be-
come of thoſe high-boaſted maxims ? your
imitation of great examples ? Where is that
philoſopher whom adverſity could not ſhake, yet
falls before the firſt accident that parts him from
his miſtreſs? How ſhall I hereafter excuſe my
ill-conduct to myſelf, when in him that ſeduced
me, I fee a man without courage, effeminate;
one whoſe weak mind ſinks under the firſt re-
verſe of fortune, and abſurdly renounces his rea-
fon the moment he has occaſion to make uſe of
it? Good God! that in my preſent ſtate of
humiliation I ſhould be reduced to bluſh for my
choice, as much as for my weakneſs.
Refleet



336
E L O I SA.
Reflect a little think how far you forget
yourſelf; can your wandering and impatient
mind ſtoop ſo low as to be guilty of cruelty ?
Do you preſume to reproach me? Do you com-
plain of me? --complain of Eloiſa ! Barbarous
man !--How comes it that remorſe did not
hold your hand? why did not the moſt en-
dearing proofs of the tendereſt paſſion that
ever exiſted deprive you of the power to in-
fult me? How deſpicable muſt be your heart,
if it can doubt of the fidelity of mine !-But
no, you do not, you cannot doubt it. I defy
your
utmoſt impatience to do this ; nay, even at
this inſtant, while I expreſs my abhorrence of
your injuſtice, you muſt ſee, too plainly, the
cauſe of the firſt emotion of anger I ever felt in
Was it you that aſked me whether I had not
ruined myſelf by my inconſiderate confidence,
and if my deſigns had not ſucceeded? How
would you not bluſh for ſuch cruel infinuations,
if you knew the fond hopes that ſeduced me, if
you knew the projects I had formed for our mu-
tual happineſs, and how they are now vaniſhed
with all my comforts. I dare flatter myſelf ſtill,
you will one day know better, and your re-
morſe amply revenge your reproaches. You
know my father's prohibition ; you are not ig.
norant of the publick talk; I foreſaw the confe-
quences; I had them repreſented to you by
ty couſin : you were as ſenſible of them as we,
and for our mutual preſervation it was neceſſary
to ſubmit to a ſeparation.
I, there-

my life.
E LO I SA.
337
Do you
1, therefore, drove you away, as you inju-
riouſly term it. But for whoſe fake was I in-
duced to this? Have you no delicacy? Un-
grateful man! it was for the ſake of a heart
inſenſible of its own worth, and that would ra-
ther die a thouſand deaths than fee me rendered
infamous. Tell me, what would become of
you, if I were given up to ſhame?
think you could ſupport my diſhonour? Come,
cruel as you are, if you think fo; come, and
receive the ſacrifice of my reputation with the
fame fortitude as I will offer it up. Come back,
nor fear to be diſclaimed by her to whom you
were always dear. I am ready to declare, in
the face of heaven and earth, the engagements
of our mutual paffion; I am ready boldly to
declare you my lover, and to expire in your arms
with affection and ſhame. I had rather the
whole world ſhould know my tenderneſs than
that you ſhould one moment doubt it: the ſhafts
of ignominy wound not ſo deep as your re-
proaches.
I conjure you, let us for ever put an end to
theſe reciprocal complaints; they are to me in-
tolerable. Good heavens! how can thoſe who
love each other delight in quarrelling; and loſe
in tormenting themſelves thoſe moments in
which they ſtand in need of mutual conſola-
tion! No, my friend, what end does it ferve
to affect a diſagreement which does not ſubliſt?'
Let us complain of fortune, but not of love.
Never did it form a more perfect, a more laiting,
VOL. I.
Р
union;
338
ELOISA.
union; our fouls are too intimately blended ever
to be feparated : nor can we live apart from each
other, but as two parts of one being. How is
it, then, that you only feel your own griefs?
Why do you not ſympathiſe with thoſe of your
friend! Why do you not perceive in your
breaſt the heart-felt fighs of her’s ? Alas! they
are more affecting than your impaffioned ra-
vings! If you partook of my ſufferings, you
would even more ſeverely feel them than your
own.
You ſay your ſituation is deplorable! Think
of Eloiſa's, and lament only for her. Conſider,
in our common misfortune, the different ſtate of
your fex and mine, and judge which is moſt de:
plorable. Affected by violent paffions, to
pre-
tend to be infenfible; a prey to a thouſand
griefs, to be obliged to appear chearful and con-
tent; to have a ſerene countenance with an agi-
tated mind; to ſpeak always contrary to one's
thoughts; to diſguiſe all we feel; to be deceitful
through obligation, and to ſpeak untruth through
modefty, ſuch is the habitual ſituation of
every
young woman of my age. Thus we paſs the
prime of our youth, under the tyranny of de-
corum, which is at length aggravated by that
of our parents, in forcing us into an unſuitable
marriage. In vain, however, would men lay a
reſtraint on the inclinations; the heart gives
law to itſelf; it eludes the ſhackles of ſlavery,
and beſtows itſelf at its own pleaſure.
Clogged
E L O IS A.
339
Clogged with a yoke of iron, which heaven
does not impoſe on us, they unite the body
without the ſoul; the perſon and the inclina-
tions are ſeparately engaged, and an unhappy
victim is forced into guilt, by obliging her to
enter into a ſacred engagement, which ſhe wants,
in one reſpect or other, an eſſential power to
fulfill. Are there not fome young women more
diſcreet? Alas! I know there are. There are
thoſe that have never loved! Peace be with
them! They have withſtood that fatal paflion!
I would alſo have refifted it. They are more
virtuous ! Do they love virtue better than I?
Had it not been for you, for you alone, I had
ever loved it.--Is it then true that I love virtue
no longer ? Is it you that hath ruined me,
and is it I who muſt confole you? But what
will become of me? The confolation of friend-
fhip is weak where that of love is wanting !
Who then can give me comfort in my afflic-
tion? With what a dreadful ſituation am I
threatened? I, who, for having committed a
crime, ſee myſelf ready to be plunged into a
new ſcene of guilt, by entering into an ab-
horred, and perhaps inevitable marriage? Where
ſhall I find tears fufficient to mourn my guilt
and lament my lover, if I yield? On the other
hand, how ſhall I find reſolution, in my preſent
depreſlion of mind, to refift? Methinks, I ſee
already the fury of an incenſed father! I feel
myſelf already moved by the cries of nature! I
feel my heart-ſtrings torn by the pangs of love.
Deprived
P 2
340
E LO IS A.
Deprived of thee, I am without reſource, with-
out fupport, without hope; the paſt is diſgrace-
ful, the preſent afflicting, and the future terrible.
I thought I had done every thing for our hap-
pineſs, but we are only made more miſerable,
by preparing the way for a more cruel ſepara-
tion. Our fleeting pleaſure is paft, while the
remorſe it occafioned remains, and the ſhame
which overwhelms me is without alleviation.
It belongs to me, to me alone, to be weak
and miſerable. Let me then weep and ſuffers
my tears are inexhauſtible as my fault is irre-
parable, while time, that ſovereign cure for al-
moſt every thing, brings to me only new mo-
tives for tears: but you, who have no violence
to fear, who are unmortified by ſhame, whom
nothing conſtrains to diſguiſe your ſentiments:
you, who have only juft taſted misfortune, and
poffefs at leaſt your former virtues unblemiſhed;
how dare you demean yourſelf ſo far, as to figh
and fob like a woman, or betray your impa-
tience like a madman? Have not I merited
contempt enough on your account without
your increaſing it, by making yourſelf con-
temptible; without overwhelming me at once
with.my own infamy and your’s? Recall then
your reſolution ; learn to bear your misfortunes,
and be like a man: be yet, if I dare to ſay
fo, the lover of Eloiſa. If I am no longer
worthy to animate your courage, remember at
leaſt, what I once was. Deſerve, then, what
for your fake I have ceaſed to be; and, though
you
E LO IS A. 341
you have diſhonoured me once, do not diſho-
nour me again.--No, my beſt friend, it is not
you that I diſcover in that effeminate letter,
which I would forget for ever, and which I
look upon already as diſowned by you. I hope,
debaſed and confuſed as I am, I dare hope, the
rememberance of me does not inſpire ſentiments
ſo baſe; but that I am more reſpected by a heart
it was in my power to inflame, and that I ſhall
not have additional cauſe to reproach myſelf in
your weakneſs.
Happy in your misfortune, you have met
with the moſt valuable recompenſe that was ever
known to a fuſceptible mind. Heaven, in your
adverſity, has given you a friend; and has made
it doubtful whether what it has beſtowed is not
a greater bleſſing than that which it has deprived
you of. Love and reſpect that too generous
man; who, at the expenſe of his own eaſe,
condeſcends to intereſt himſelf in your peace
and preſervation. How would you be affected,
if you knew every thing he would have done
for you! But what fignifies exciting your gra-
titude to aggravate your affliction? You have
no need to be informed how much he loves you,
to know his worth; and you cannot reſpect
him as he deſerves without loving him as you
ought.
LETTER
342
E LO I SA.
LETTER LXXIII.
FROM CLARA.
YOUR paffion prevails over your delicacy,
and you know
make a merit of your ſufferings. You would
otherwiſe never have written in a ſtrain of re-
proach to Eloiſa, in her preſent ſituation. Be-
cauſe you are uneaſy, truely, you muſt aggravate
her uneaſineſs, which is greater than your's. I
have told you a thouſand times that I never ſaw
ſo grumbling a lover as you: always ready to
diſpute about nothing, love is to you a ſtate of
warfare: or, if ſometimes you are a little tract-
able, it is only that you may have an opportunity
to complain of having been ſo. How diſagree
able muſt be ſuch lovers, and how happy do I
think myſelf in never having had any but fuch
as I could diſmiſs when I pleaſed, without a
tear being ſhed on either fide!
You muſt change your tone, believe me, if
you would have Eloiſa ſurvive her prefent di-
ſtreſs: it is too much for her to ſupport her own
grief and your diſpleaſure. Learn for once to
ſoothe her too ſuſceptible heart: you owe her the
moſt tender conſolation : and ought to be afraid
leſt you ſhould aggravate your misfortune by
lamenting it. At leaſt, if you muſt complain,
vent your complaints againſt me, who am the
only cauſe of your ſeparation. Yes, my friend
you gueſſed right: I ſuggeſted to her the part
her


E LO IS A.
343
her honour and ſecurity required her to take;
or rather I obliged her to take it, by exag-
gerating her danger: I prevailed alſo on you
to depart, and we all have but done our duty.
I did mere, however, than this. I prevented
her from accepting the offers of Lord B--:
I have prevented your being happy; but the
happineſs of Eloiſa is dearer to me than your's :
I knew ſhe could not be happy after leaving her
parents to ſhame and deſpair ; and I can hardly
comprehend, with regard to yourſelf, what kind
of happineſs you can taſte at the expenſe of
her's. Be that what it will, ſuch has been
my
conduct and offenſe; and ſince you delight in
quarrelling with thoſe you love, you ſee the
occaſion you have to begin with me alone: if
in this you do not ceaſe to be ungrateful, you
will at leaſt ceaſe to be unjuſt. For my part,
in whatever manner you behave to me, I ſhall
always behave the ſame towards you : ſo long
as Eloiſa loves you, you will be dear to me, and
more I cannot ſay. I am not ſorry that I never
oppoſed or favoured your paffion. The difin-
terefted friendſhip which always actuated me in
that affair juſtifies me equally in what I have
done for and againſt you; and if at any time I
intereſted myſelf in your paſſion more perhaps
than became me, my heart ſufficiently excuſed
I ſhall never bluſh for the ſervices I was
able to do my friend, nor ſhall reproach myſelf
becauſe they were uſeleſs. I have not forgot
what

me.


344
E LO I SA.
what you formerly taught me, of the fortitude
of the wife man under misfortunes; and fancy
I could remind you of ſeveral maxims to that
purpoſe : but I have learned, by the example of
Eloiſa, that a girl of my age is, to a philofo-
pher, a bad preceptor, and a dangerous pupil.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME

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