V. You are surely in jest. · Part 15

The more I wandered over this delightful asylum, the more I found the agreeable sensation improve which I experienced at my first entrance: nevertheless my curiosity kept me in exercise; I was more eager to view the objects around me, than to inquire into the cause of the impressions they made on me, and I chose to resign myself to that delightful contemplation, without taking the trouble of reflection; but Mrs. Wolmar drew me out of my reverie, by taking me under the arm; All that you see, said she, is nothing but vegetable and inanimate nature, which in spite of us, always leaves behind it a melancholy idea of solitude. Come and view nature animated and more affecting. There you will discover some new charm every minute in the day. You anticipate me, said I, I hear a confused chirping noise, and I see but few birds; I suppose you have an aviary. True, said she, let us go to it. I durst not as yet declare what I thought of this aviary; but there was something in the idea of it which disgusted me, and did not seem to correspond with the rest.

We went down, through a thousand turnings, to the bottom of the orchard, where I found all the water collected in a fine rivulet, flowing gently between two rows of old willows, which had been frequently lopped. Their tops being hollow and half bare, formed a kind of vessel, from whence, by the contrivance I just now mentioned, grew several tufts of honey-suckles, of which one part intertwined among the branches, and the other dropped carelessly along the side of the rivulet. Near the extremity of the inclosure, was a little bason, bordered with grass, bulrushes, and weeds, which served as a watering place to the aviary, and was the last use made of this water, so precious and so well husbanded.

Somewhat beyond this bason was a platform, which was terminated, in an angle of the inclosure, by a hillock planted with a number of little trees of all kinds; the smallest stood towards the summit, and their size increased, in proportion as the ground grew lower, which made their tops appear to be horizontal, or at least shewed that they were one day intended to be so. In the front stood a dozen of trees, which were young as yet, but of a nature to grow very large, such as the beech, the elm, the ash, and the acacia. The groves on this side, served as an asylum to that vast number of birds which I had heard chirping at a distance, and it was under the shade of this foliage, as under a large umbrella, that you might see them hop about, run, frisk, provoke each other, and fight, as if they had not perceived us. They were so far from flying at our approach, that, according to the notion with which I was prepossessed, I imagined them to have been inclosed within a wire; but when we came to the border of the bason, I saw several of them alight, and come towards us through a short walk which parted the platform in two, and made a communication between the bason and the aviary.

Mr. Wolmar then going round the bason, scattered two or three handfuls of mixed grain, which he had in his pocket, along the walk, and when he retired, the birds flocked together and began to seed like so many chickens, with such an air of familiarity, that I plainly perceived they had been trained up to it. This is charming, said I: your using the word aviary, surprized me at first, but I now see what it is; I perceive that you invite them as your guests, instead of confining them as your prisoners. What do you mean by our guests? replied Eloisa; it is we who are theirs. They are masters here, and we pay them for being admitted some times. Very well, said I, but how did these masters get possession of this spot? How did you collect together so many voluntary inhabitants? I never heard of any attempt of this kind, and I could not have believed that such a design could have succeeded, if I had not evidence of it before my eyes.

Time and patience, said Mr. Wolmar, have worked this miracle. These are expedients which the rich scarce ever think of in their pleasures. Always in haste for enjoyment, force and money are the only instruments they know how to employ; they have birds in cage, and friends at so much a mouth. If the servants ever came near this place, you would soon see the birds disappear, and if you perceive vast numbers of them at present, the reason is that this spot has always, in some degree, been a refuge for them. There is no bringing them together where there are none to invite them, but where there are some already, it is easy to increase their numbers by anticipating all their wants, by not frightening them, by suffering them to hatch with security, and by never disturbing the young ones in their nest; for by these means, such as are there, abide there, and those which come after them continue. This grove was already in being, though it was divided from the orchard; Eloisa has only inclosed it by a quick-set hedge, removed that which parted it, and enlarged and adorned it with new designs.

You see to the right and left of the walk which leads to it, two spaces filled with a confused mixture of grass, straw, and all sorts of plants. She orders them every year to be sown with corn, millet, turnsol, hemp-seed, vetch; and in general all sorts of grain which birds are fond of, and nothing is ever reaped. Besides this, almost every day she or I bring them something to eat, and when we neglect, Fanny supplies our place. They are supplied with water, as you see, very easily. Mrs. Wolmar carries her attention so far as to provide for them, every spring, little heaps of hair straw, wool, moss, and other materials proper to build their nests. Thus by their having materials at hand, provisions in abundance, and by the great care we take to secure them from their enemies, [56] the uninterrupted tranquility they enjoy induces them to lay their eggs in this convenient place, where they want for nothing, and where nobody disturbs them. Thus the habitation of the fathers becomes the abode of the children, and the colony thrives and multiplies.

Ah! said Eloisa, do you see nothing more? No one thinks beyond himself; but the affection of a constant pair, the zeal of their domestic concerns, paternal and maternal fondness, all this is lost upon you. Had you been here two months ago, you might have feasted your eyes with the most lovely sight, and have gratified your feelings with the most tender sensations in nature. Madam, said I, somewhat gravely, you are a wife and a mother; there are pleasures of which it becomes you to be susceptible. Mr. Wolmar then taking me cordially by the hand, said, You have friends, and those friends have children; how can you be a stranger to paternal affection? I looked at him, I looked at Eloisa, they looked at each other, and cast such an affecting eye upon me, that embracing them alternately, I said with tender emotion, They are as dear to me as to yourself. I do not know by what strange effect a single word can make such an alteration in our minds, but since that moment, Mr. Wolmar appears to me quite another man, and I consider him less in the light of a husband to her whom I have so long adored, as in that of the father of two children for whom I would lay down my life.

I was going to walk round the bason, in order to draw nearer to this delightful asylum, and its little inhabitants, but Mrs. Wolmar checked me. Nobody, says she, goes to disturb them in their dwelling, and you are the first of our guests whom I ever brought so far. There are four keys to this orchard, of which my father and we have each of us one: Fanny has the fourth, as superintendent, and to bring the children here now and then; the value of which favour is greatly enhanced by the extreme circumspection which is required of them while they are here. Even Gustin never comes hither without one of the four: when the two spring months are over in which his labours are useful, he scarce ever comes hither afterwards, and all the rest we do ourselves. Thus, said I, for fear of making our birds slaves to you, you make yourselves slaves to your birds. This, she replied, is exactly the sentiment of a tyrant, who never thinks that he enjoys liberty, but while he is disturbing the freedom of others.

As we were coming back, Mr. Wolmar threw a handful of barley into the bason, and on looking into it, I perceived some little fish. Ah, ah, said I immediately, here are some prisoners nevertheless. Yes, said he, they are prisoners of war, who have had their lives spared. Without doubt, added his wife. Some time since Fanny stole two perch out of the kitchen, and brought them hither without my knowledge. I leave them here, for fear of offending her if I sent them to the lake; for it is better to confine the fish in too narrow a compass, than to disoblige a worthy creature. You are in the right, said I, and the fish are not much to be pitied for having escaped from the frying-pan into the water.

Well, how does it appear to you? said she, as we were coming back; are you got to the end of the world yet? No, I replied, I am quite out of the world, and you have in truth transported me into elysium. The pompous name she has given this orchard, said Mr. Wolmar, very well deserves that raillery. Be modest in your commendation of childish amusements, and be assured that they have never intrenched on the concerns of the mistress of a family. I know it, I am sure of it, I replied, and childish amusements please me more in this way than the labours of men.

Still there is one thing here, I continued, which I cannot conceive: which is, that though a place: so different from what it was, can never have been altered to its present state; but by great care and culture; yet I can no where discover the least trace of cultivation. Every thing is verdant, fresh, and vigorous, and the hand of the gardener is no where to be discerned: nothing contradicts the idea of a desert island, which struck me at the first entrance, and I cannot perceive any footsteps of men. Oh, said Mr. Wolmar, it is because they have taken great pains to efface them. I have frequently been witness to, and sometimes an accomplice in this roguery. They sow all the cultivated spots with grass, which presently hides all appearance of culture. In the winter, they cover all the dry and barren spots with some lays of manure, the manure eats up the moss, revives the grass and the plants; the trees themselves do not fare the worse, and in the summer there is nothing of it to be seen.

With regard to the moss which covers some of the walks, Lord B---- sent us the secret of making it grow from England. These two sides, he continued, were inclosed with walls; the walls have been covered not with hedges, but with thick trees, which make the boundaries of the place appear like the beginning of a wood. The two other sides are secured by strong thickset hedges well stocked with maple, hawthorn, holy-oak, privet, and other small trees, which destroy the appearance of the hedges, and make them look more like coppice-woods. You see nothing here in an exact row, nothing level; the line never entered this place; nature plants nothing by the line; the affective irregularity of the winding walks are managed with art, in order to prolong the walk, to hide the boundaries of the island, and to enlarge its extent in appearance, without making inconvenient and too frequent turnings. [57]

Upon considering the whole, I thought it somewhat extraordinary that they should take so much pains to conceal the labour they had been at; would it not have been better to have taken no such pains? Notwithstanding all we have told you, replied Eloisa, you judge of the labour from its effect, and you deceive yourself. All that you see are wild and vigorous plants which need only to be put into the earth, and which afterwards spring up of themselves. Besides, nature seems desirous of hiding her real charms from the sight of men, because they are too little sensible of them, and disfigure them when they are within their reach; she flies from public places; it is on the tops of mountains, in the midst of forests, in desert islands, that she displays her most affecting charms. They who are in love with her and cannot go so far in pursuit of her, are forced to do her violence, by obliging her, in some measure, to come and dwell with them, and all this cannot be effected without some degree of illusion.

At these words, I was struck with an idea which made them laugh. I am supposing to myself, said I, some rich man to be master of this house, and to bring an architect who is paid an extravagant price for spoiling nature. With what disdain would he enter this plain and simple spot! With what contempt would he order these ragged plants to be torn up! What fine lines he would draw! What fine walks he would cut! What fine geese-feet, what fine trees in the shape of umbrellas and fans he would make! What fine arbor work----nicely cut out! What beautiful grass-plats of fine English turf, round, square, sloping, oval! What fine yew-trees cut in the shape of dragons, pagods, marmosets, and all sorts of monsters! With what fine vases of brass, with what fine fruit in stone he would decorate his garden! [58] ... When he had done all this, said Mr. Wolmar, he would have made a very fine place, which would scarce ever be frequented, and from whence one should always go with eagerness to enjoy the country; a dismal place where nobody would walk, but only use it as a thoroughfare when they were setting out to walk; whereas in my rural rambles, I often make haste to return that I may walk here.

I see nothing in those extensive grounds so lavishly ornamented, but the vanity of the proprietor and of the artist, who being eager to display, one his riches and the other his talents, only contribute, at a vast expense, to tire those who would enjoy their works. A false taste of grandeur, which was never designed for man, poisons all his pleasures. An air of greatness has always something melancholy in it; it leads us to consider the wretchedness of those who affect it. In the midst of these grass-plats and fine walks, the little individual does not grow greater; a tree twenty feet high will shelter him as well as one of sixty, [59] he never occupies a space of more than three feet, and in the midst of his immense possessions he is lost like a poor worm.

There is another taste directly opposite to this, and still more ridiculous, because it does not allow us the pleasure of walking, for which gardens were intended. I understand you, said I; you allude to those petty virtuosi, who die away at the sight of a ranunculus, and fall prostrate before a tulip. Hereupon, my Lord, I gave them an account of what happened to me formerly at London in the flower-garden into which we were introduced with so much ceremony, and where we saw all the treasures of Holland displayed with so much lustre upon four beds of dung. I did not forget the ceremony of the umbrella and the little rod with which they honoured me, unworthy as I was, as well as the rest of the spectators. I modestly acknowledged how, by endeavouring to appear a virtuoso in my turn, and venturing to fall in ecstasies at the sight of a tulip which seemed to be of a fine shape and of a lively colour, I was mocked, hooted at, and hissed by all the connoisseurs, and how the florist who despised the flower despised its panegyrist likewise to that degree, that he did not even deign to look at me all the time we were together. I added, that I supposed he highly regretted having prostituted his rod and umbrello on one so unworthy.

This taste, said Mr. Wolmar, when it degenerates into a passion, has something idle and little in it, which renders it puerile and ridiculously expensive. The other, at least, is noble, grand, and has something real in it. But what is the value of a curious root which an insect gnaws or spoils perhaps as soon as it is purchased, or of a flower which is beautiful at noon day, and fades before sun-set; what signifies a conventional beauty, which is only obvious to the eyes of virtuosi, and which is a beauty only because they will have it to be so? The time will come when they will require different kinds of beauty in flowers, from that which they seek after at present, and with as good reason; then you will be the connoisseur in your turn, and your virtuoso will appear ignorant. All these trifling attentions, which degenerate into a kind of study, are unbecoming a rational being, who, would keep his body in moderate exercise, or relieve his mind by amusing himself in a walk with his friends.

Flowers were made to delight our eyes as we pass along, and not to be so curiously anatomized. [60] See the queen of them shine in every part of the orchard. It perfumes the air; it ravishes the eyes, and costs neither care nor culture. It is for this reason that florists despise it; nature has made it so lovely, that they cannot add to it any borrowed beauty, and as they cannot plague themselves with cultivating it, they find nothing in it which flatters their fancy. The mistake of your pretenders to taste is, that they are desirous of introducing art in every thing, and are never satisfied unless the art appears; whereas true taste consists in concealing it, especially when it concerns any of the works of nature. To what purpose are those strait gravelled walks which we meet with continually; and those stars which are so far from making a park appear more extensive to the view, as is commonly supposed, that they only contribute awkwardly to discover its boundaries? Do you ever see fine gravel in woods, or is that kind of gravel softer to the feet than moss or down?

Does nature constantly make use of the square or rule? Are they afraid lest she be visible in some spot notwithstanding all their care to disfigure her? Upon the whole, it is droll enough to see them affect to walk in a strait line that they may sooner reach the end, as if they were tired of walking, before they have well begun? Would not one imagine, by their taking the shortest cut, that they were going a journey instead of a walk, and that they were in a hurry to get out as soon they come in?

How will a man of taste act, who lives to relish life, who knows how to enjoy himself, who pursues real and simple pleasures, and who is inclined to make a walk before his house? He will make it so convenient and agreeable that he may enjoy it every hour of the day, and yet so natural and simple, that it will seem as if he had done nothing. He will introduce water, and will make the walk verdant, cool, and shady; for nature herself unites these properties. He will bestow no attention on symmetry, which is the bane of nature and variety, and the walks of gardens in general are so like each other, that we always fancy ourselves in the same. He will make the ground smooth, in order to walk more conveniently; but the two sides of his walks will not be exactly parallel; their direction will not always be recti-lineal, they will be somewhat irregular like the steps of an indolent man, who saunters in his walk: he will not be anxious about opening distant perspectives.

The taste for perspective and distant views proceeds from the disposition of men in general, who are never satisfied with the place where they are. They are always desirous of what is distant from them, and the artist who cannot make them contented with the objects around them, flies to this resource to amuse them; but such a man as I speak of, is under no such inquietudes, and when he is agreeably fixed, he does not desire to be elsewhere. Here, for example, we have no prospect, and we are very well satisfied without any. We are willing to think that all the charms of nature are inclosed here, and I should be very much afraid lest a distant view should take off a good deal of the beauty from this walk. [61] Certainly he who would not chuse to pass his days in this simple and pleasant place, is not master of true taste or of a vigorous mind. I confess that one ought not to make a parade of bringing strangers hither; but then we can enjoy it ourselves, without shewing it to any one.

Sir, said I, these rich people who have such fine gardens, have very good reasons for not choosing to walk alone, or to be in company with themselves only; therefore they are in the right to lay them out for the pleasure of others. Besides, I have seen gardens in China, made after your taste, and laid out with so much art that the art was not seen, but in such a costly manner, and kept up at such a vast expense, that that single idea destroyed all the pleasure I had in viewing them. There were rocks, grottos, and artificial cascades in level and sandy places, where there was nothing but spring-water; there were flowers and curious plants of all the climates in China and Tartary, collected and cultivated in the same soil. It is true, there were no fine walks or regular compartments; but you might see curiosities heaped together with profusion, which in nature are only to be found separate and scattered. Nature was there represented under a thousand various forms, and yet the whole taken together was not natural.

Here neither earth nor stones are transplanted, you have neither pumps nor reservoirs, you have no occasion for green-houses or stoves, of bell glasses or straw-beds. A plain spot of ground has been improved by a few simple ornaments. A few common herbs and trees, and a few purling streams which flow without pomp or constraint, have contributed to embellish it. It is an amusement, which has cost little trouble, and the simplicity of it is an additional pleasure to the beholder. I can conceive that this place might be made still more agreeable, and yet be infinitely less pleasing to me. Such, for example, is Lord Cobham’s celebrated park at Stow. It consists of places extremely beautiful and picturesque, modelled after the fashion of different countries, and in which every thing appears natural except their conjunction, as in the gardens of China, which I just now mentioned. The proprietor who made this stately solitude, has even erected ruins, temples, old buildings, and different ages as well as different places are collected with more than mortal magnificence. This is the very thing I dislike.

I would have the amusements of mankind carry an air of ease with them which does not put one in mind of their weakness, and that while we admire these curiosities our imagination may not be disturbed by reflecting on the vast sums of money and labour they have cost. Are we not destined to trouble enough, without making our amusements a fatigue?

I have but one objection, I added, looking at Eloisa, to make to your elysium, but which you will probably think of some weight, which is, that it is a superfluous amusement. To what purpose was it to make a new walk, when you have such beautiful groves on the other side of the house which you neglect? That’s true, said she, somewhat disconcerted, but I like this better. If you had thoroughly reflected on the propriety of your question before you had made it, said Mr. Wolmar, interrupting us, it might be imputed to you as more than an indiscretion. My wife has never set her foot in those groves since she has been married. I know the reason though she has always kept it a secret from me. You who are no stranger to it, learn to respect the spot where you are; it has been planted by the hands of virtue.

I had scarce received this just reprimand, but the little family led by Fanny, came in as we were going out. These three lovely children threw themselves round Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s necks. I likewise shared their little caresses. Eloisa and I returned into elysium to take a little turn with them; afterwards we went to join Mr. Wolmar who was talking to some workmen. In our way, she told me, that she no sooner became a mother, than an idea struck into her mind, with respect to that walk, which increased her zeal for embellishing it. I had an eye, said she, to the health and amusement of my children as they grew older. It requires more care than labour to keep up this place; it is more essential to give a certain turn to the branches of the plants, than to dig and cultivate the ground; I intend one day to make gardeners of my little ones: they shall have sufficient exercise to strengthen their constitution, and not enough to enfeeble it. Besides, what is too much for their age, shall be done by others, and they shall confine themselves to such little works as may amuse them.

I cannot describe, she added, what pleasure I enjoy in imagining my infants busy in returning those little attentions which I now bestow on them with such satisfaction, and the joy of which their tender hearts will be susceptible, when they see their mother walking with delight under the shades, which have been formed by their own hands. In truth, my friend, said she, with an affecting tone, time thus spent is an emblem of the felicity of the next world, and it was not without reason that, reflecting on these scenes, I christened this place before hand by the name of elysium. My Lord, this incomparable woman is as amiable in the character of a mother as in that of a wife, a friend, a daughter, and to the eternal punishment of my soul, she was thus lovely when my mistress.

Transported with this delightful place, I intreated them in the evening to consent that, during my stay, Fanny should entrust me with her key, and consign to me the office of feeding the birds. Eloisa immediately sent a sack of grain to my chamber, and gave me her own key. I cannot tell for what reason, but I accepted it with a kind of concern, and it seemed as if Mr. Wolmar’s would have been more acceptable to me.

In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child, went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed; the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear the Eloisa of my soul.

As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children, those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity.

I imagined that I could perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart, which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature.

There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul, as in this asylum which she has named.

I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections, which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who has purchased them, knows what they cost.

_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno Si legesse in fronte scritto Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]

As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are; why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say; this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much, not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?

Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to blush at my sentiments.

Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara, attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.

During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and that having received him from a father as solicitous for his daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him as much as possible.

This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods, and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave me.

On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause, taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.

He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it, you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal it.

I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or like a piece well represented on the stage.

If I have any ruling passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments; this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part, but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are necessary, to me.

The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to, and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty. The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day grown stronger.

I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she might have expected.

Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative, attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me, afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of my family.

It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports, the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded me, knowing me to be the property of another.

This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise. This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.

You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one, I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre- engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to render you truly estimable.

Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection, which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish; I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular; you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.

At these words, in spite of all my endeavours not to interrupt him but by my tears, I could not forbear throwing myself round his neck, and crying out; O my dear husband! O thou best and most amiable of men! Tell me what is wanting to compleat my happiness, but to promote your felicity, and to be more deserving... You are as happy as you can be, said he, interrupting me; you deserve to be so; but it is time to enjoy that felicity in peace, which has hitherto cost you such vast pains. If your fidelity had been all I required, that would have been ensured the moment you made me the promise; I wanted moreover to make it easy and agreeable to you, and we have both laboured to this end in concert, without communicating our views to each other. Eloisa, we have succeeded; better than you imagine perhaps. The only fault I find in you is, that you do not resume that confidence which you have a right to repose in yourself, and that you undervalue your own worth.

Extreme diffidence is as dangerous as excessive confidence. As that rashness which prompts us to attempts beyond our strength renders our power ineffectual, so that timidity which prevents us from relying on ourselves, renders it useless. True prudence consists in being thoroughly acquainted with the measure of our own power, and acting up to it. You have acquired an increase of strength by changing your condition. You are no longer that unfortunate girl who bewailed the weakness she indulged; you are the most virtuous of women, you are bound by no laws but those of honour and duty, and the only fault that can now be imputed to you, is that you retain too lively a sense of your former indiscretion. Instead of taking reproachful precautions against yourself, learn to depend upon your self, and your confidence will increase your strength. Banish that injurious diffidence, and think yourself happy in having made choice of an honest man at an age which is liable to imposition, and in having entertained a lover formerly, whom you may now enjoy as a friend, even under your husband’s eye.

I was no sooner made acquainted with your connections, than I judged of you by each other. I perceived what enthusiastic delusion led you astray; it never operates but on susceptible minds; it sometimes ruins them, but it is by a charm which has power to seduce them alone. I judged that the same turn of mind which formed your attachment would break it as soon as it became criminal, and that vice might find an entrance, but never take root in such hearts as yours.

I conceived moreover that the connection between you ought not to be broken; that there were so many laudable circumstances attending your mutual attachment, that it ought rather to be rectified than destroyed; and that neither of the two could forget the other, without diminishing their own worth. I knew that great struggles only served to inflame strong passions, and that if violent efforts exercised the mind, they occasioned such torments as by their continuance might subdue it. I took advantage of Eloisa’s gentleness, to moderate the severity of her reflections. I nourished her friendship for you, said he to St. Preux; I banished all immoderate passion, and I believe that I have preserved you a greater share of her affections, than she would have left you, had I abandoned her entirely to herself.

My success encouraged me, and I determined to attempt your cure as I had accomplished hers; for I had an esteem for you, and notwithstanding the prejudices of vice, I have always observed that every good end is to be obtained from susceptible minds by means of confidence and sincerity. I saw you, you did not deceive me; you will not deceive me; and though you are not yet what you ought to be, I find you more improved than you imagine, and I am better satisfied with you than you are with yourself. I know that my conduct has an extravagant appearance, and is repugnant to the common received principles. But maxims become less general, in proportion as we are better acquainted with the human heart: and Eloisa’s husband ought not to act like men in common. My dear children, said he, with a tone the more affecting as it came from a dispassionate man; remain what you are, and we shall all be happy. Danger consists chiefly in opinion; be not afraid of yourselves, and you will have nothing to apprehend; only think on the present, and I will answer for the future. I cannot communicate any thing farther to day, but if my schemes succeed, and my hopes do not betray me, our destiny will be better fulfilled, and you two will be much happier than if you had enjoyed each other.

As we rose, he embraced us, and would have us likewise embrace each other, on that spot. On that very spot where formerly... Clara, O my dear Clara, how dearly have you ever loved me! I made no resistance. Alas! How indiscreet would it have been to have made any! This kiss was nothing like that which rendered the grove terrible to me. I silently congratulated myself, and I found that my heart was more changed than I had hitherto ventured to imagine.

As we were walking towards home, my husband, taking me by the hand, stopt me, and shewing me the wood we had just left, he said to me smiling; Eloisa, be no longer afraid of this asylum; it has not been lately profaned. You will not believe me, cousin, but I swear that he has some supernatural gift of reading one’s inmost thoughts: may heaven continue it to him! Having such reason to despise myself, it is certainly to this art that I am indebted for his indulgence.

You do not see yet any occasion I have for your advice; patience, my angel! I am coming to that point; but the conversation which I have related, was necessary to clear up what follows.

On our return, my husband, who has long been expected at Etange, told me that he proposed going thither to-morrow, that he should see you in his way, and that he should stay there five or six days. Without saying all I thought concerning such an ill-timed journey, I told him that I imagined the necessity was not so indispensable as to oblige Mr. Wolmar to leave his guest, whom he had himself invited to his house. Would you have me, he replied, use ceremony with him to remind him that he is not at home? I am like the Valaisians for hospitality. I hope he will find their sincerity here, and allow us to use their freedom. Perceiving that he would not understand me, I took another method, and endeavoured to persuade our guest to take the journey with him. You will find a spot, said I, which has its beauties, and such as you are fond of; you will visit my patrimony and that of my ancestors; the interest you take in every thing which concerns me, will not allow me to suppose that such a sight can be indifferent to you.

My mouth was open to add that the castle was like that of Lord B----, who... but luckily I had time to bite my tongue. He answered me coolly that I was in the right, and that he would do as I pleased. But Mr. Wolmar, who seemed determined to drive me to an extremity, replied that he should do what was most agreeable to himself. Which do you like best, to go or to stay? To stay, said he, without hesitating. Well, stay then, rejoined my husband, taking him by the hand: you are a sincere and honest man, and I am well pleased with that declaration. There was no room for much altercation between my husband and me, in the hearing of this third person. I was silent, but could not conceal my uneasiness so well, but my husband perceived it. What! said he, with an air of discontent, St. Preux being at a little distance from us, shall I have pleaded your cause against yourself in vain, and will Mrs. Wolmar remain satisfied with a virtue which depends on opportunity? For my part, I am more nice; I will be indebted for the fidelity of my wife, to her affection, not to chance; and it is not enough that she is constant, it wounds my delicacy to think that she should doubt her constancy.

At length, he took us into his closet, where I was extremely surprized to see him take from a drawer, along with the copies of some of our friend’s correspondences which I delivered to him, the very original letters which I thought I had seen burned by B---- in my mother’s room. Here, said he to me, shewing them to us, are the pledges of my security; if they deceive me, it would be a folly to depend on any thing which concerns human nature. I consign my wife and my honour in charge to her, who, when single and seduced, preferred an act of benevolence, to a secure and private rendezvous. I trust Eloisa, now that she is a wife and a mother, to him who, when he had it in his power to gratify his desires, yet knew how to respect Eloisa when single and a fond girl. If either of you think so meanly of yourselves, as to suppose that I am in the wrong, say so, and I retract this instant. Cousin, do you think that one could easily venture to make answer to such a speech?

I nevertheless sought an opportunity in the afternoon of speaking with my husband in private, and without entering into reasons which I was not at liberty to urge, I only intreated him to put off his journey for two days. My request was granted immediately; and I employ the time, in sending you this express and waiting for your answer, to know how I am to act.

I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem, if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux, and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact? This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.

The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble. Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet, I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments which virtue has extinguished.

But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to yield again to temptation?

Weigh all these circumstances, my dear Clara, you will find that though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern, that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end of our lives.

Letter CXXXII. Answer.

Poor Eloisa! With so much reason to live at ease, what torments you continually create! All thy misfortunes come from thyself, O Israel! If you adhered to your own maxims; if, in point of sentiment, you only hearkened to the voice within you, and your heart did but silence your reason, you would then without scruple trust to that security it inspires, and you would not constrain yourself against the testimony of your own heart, to dread a danger which can arise only from thence.

I understand you, I perfectly understand you, Eloisa; being more secure in yourself than you pretend to be, you have a mind to humble yourself on account of your past failings, under a pretence of preventing new ones; and your scruples are not so much precautions against the future, as a penance you impose upon yourself to atone for the indiscretion which ruined you formerly. You compare the times; do you consider? Compare situations likewise, and remember that I then reproved you for your confidence, as I now reprove you for your diffidence.

You are mistaken, my dear; but nature does not alter so soon. If we can forget our situation for want of reflection, we see it in its true light when we take pains to consider of it, and we can no more conceal our virtues than our vices from ourselves. Your gentleness and devotion have given you a turn for humility. Mistrust that dangerous virtue which only excites self-love by making it centre in one point, and be assured that the noble sincerity of an upright mind, is greatly preferable to the pride of humility. If moderation is necessary in wisdom, it is requisite likewise in those precautions it suggests, lest a solicitude which is reproachful to virtue should debase the mind, and, by keeping us in constant alarm, render a chimerical danger a real one. Don’t you perceive that after we have had a fall, we should hold ourselves upright, and that by leaning too much towards the side opposite to that on which we fell, we are in danger of falling again? Cousin, you loved like Eloisa. Now, like her, you are an extravagant devotee; he even said that you may be more successful in the latter than you were in the former! In truth, if I was less acquainted with your natural timidity, your apprehensions would be sufficient to terrify me in my turn, and if I was so scrupulous, I might, from being alarmed for you, begin to tremble for myself.

Consider farther, my dear friend; you whose system of morality is as easy and natural as it is pure and honest, do not make constructions which are harsh and foreign to your character, with respect to your maxims concerning the separation of the sexes. I agree with you that they ought not to live together, nor after the same manner; but consider whether this important rule does not admit of many distinctions in point of practice; examine whether it ought to be applied indiscriminately, and without exception to married as well as to single women, to society in general as well as to particular connections, to business as well as to amusements, and whether that honour and decency which inspire these maxims, ought not sometimes to regulate them? In well governed countries, where the natural relations of things are attended to in matrimony, you would admit of assemblies where young persons of both sexes, might see, be acquainted, and associate with each other; but you prohibit them, with good reason, from holding any private intercourse. But is not the case quite different with regard to married women and the mothers of families, who can have no interest, that is justifiable, in exhibiting themselves in public; who are confined within doors by their domestic concerns, and who should not be refused to do any thing at home which is becoming the mistress of a family?

I should not like to see you in the cellars presenting the wine for the merchants to taste, nor to see you leave your children to settle accounts with a banker; but if an honest man should come to visit your husband, or to transact some business with him, will you refuse to entertain his guest in his absence; and to do him the honours of the house for fear of being left _tete a tete_ with him? Trace this principle to its source, and it will explain all your maxims. Why do we suppose that women ought to live retired and apart from the men? Shall we do such injustice to our sex as to account for it upon principles drawn from our weakness, and that it is only to avoid the danger of temptations? No, my dear, these unworthy apprehensions do not become an honest woman, and the mother of a family who is continually surrounded with objects which nourish in her the sentiments of honour, and who is devoted to the most respectable duties of human nature.

It is nature herself that divides us from the men, by prescribing to us different occupations; it is that amiable and timorous modesty, which, without being immediately attentive to chastity, is nevertheless its surest guardian; it is that cautious and affecting reserve, which at one and the same time cherishing both desire and respect in the hearts of men, serves as a kind of coquetry to virtue. This is the reason why even husbands themselves are not excepted out of this rule. This is the reason why the most discreet women generally maintain the greatest ascendancy over their husbands; because, by the help of this prudent and discreet reserve, without shewing any caprice or non-compliance, they know, even in the embraces of the most tender union, how to keep them at a distance, and prevent their being cloyed with them. You will agree with me that your maxims are too general not to admit of exceptions, and that not being founded on any rigorous duty, the same principle of decorum which established them, may sometimes justify our dispensing with them.

The circumspection which you ground on your past failings, is injurious to your present condition; I will never pardon this unnecessary caution which your heart dictates, and I can scarce forgive it in your reason. How was it possible that the rampart which protects your person, could not secure you from such an ignominious apprehension? How could my cousin, my sister, my friend, my Eloisa, confound the indiscretions of a girl of too much sensibility, with the infidelity of a guilty wife? Look around you, you will see nothing but what contributes to raise and support your mind. Your husband who has such confidence in you, and whose esteem it becomes you to justify; your children whom you would train to virtue, and who will one day deem it an honour that you was their mother; your venerable father who is so dear to you, who enjoys your felicity, and who derives more lustre from you than from his ancestors; your friend whose fate depends on yours, and to whom you must be accountable for a reformation to which she has contributed; her daughter, to whom you ought to set an example of those virtues which you would excite in her; your philosopher, who is a hundred times fonder of your virtues, than of your person, and who respects you still more than you apprehend; lastly, yourself, who are sensible what painful efforts your discretion has cost you, and who will surely never forfeit the fruit of so much trouble in a single moment; how many motives capable of inspiring you with courage, conspire to make you ashamed of having ventured to mistrust yourself!

But in order to answer for my Eloisa, what occasion have I to consider what she is? It is enough that I know what she was, during the indiscretions which she bewails. Ah! if your heart had ever been capable of infidelity, I would allow you to be continually apprehensive: but at the very time when you imagined that you viewed it at a distance, you may conceive the horror its real existence would have occasioned you, by what you felt at that time, when but to imagine it, had been to have committed it.

I recollect with what astonishment we learnt that there was a nation where the wellness of a fond maid is considered as an inexpiable crime, though the adultery of a married woman is there softened by the gentle term of gallantry, and where married women publicly make themselves amends for the short-lived restraint they undergo while single. I know what maxims, in this respect, prevail in high life, where virtue passes for nothing, where every thing is empty appearance, where crimes are effaced by the difficulty of proving them, or where the proof itself becomes ridiculous against custom. But you, Eloisa, you who glowed with a pure and constant passion, who was guilty only in the eyes of men, and between heaven and earth was open to no reproach! You, who made yourself respected in the midst of your indiscretions; you, who being abandoned to fruitless regret, obliged us even to adore those virtues which you had forfeited; you, who disdained to endure self-contempt, when every thing seemed to plead in your excuse, can you be apprehensive of guilt, after having paid so dearly for your weakness? Will you dare to be afraid that you have less power now, than you had in those days which cost you so many tears? No, my dear, so far from being alarmed at your former indiscretions, they ought to inspire you with courage; so severe a repentance does not lead to remorse, and whoever is so susceptible of shame, will never bid defiance to infamy.

If ever a weak mind had supports against its weakness, they are such as uphold you; if ever a vigorous mind was capable of supporting itself, what prop can yours require? Tell me, what reasonable grounds there can be for your apprehensions? All your life has been a continual struggle, in which, even after your defeat, honour and duty never ceased opposition, and at length came off victorious. Ah! Eloisa! shall I believe that, after so much pain and torment, after twelve years passed in tears, and six spent gloriously, that you still dread a trial of eight days? In few words, deal sincerely with yourself; if there really is any danger, save your person, and blush at the condition of your heart; if there is no danger, it is an offence to your reason, it is a dishonour to your virtue to be apprehensive of perils which can never affect it. Do you not know that there are some scandalous temptations which never approach noble minds; that it is even shameful to be under a necessity of subduing them, and that to take precautions against them, is not so much to humble, as to debase ourselves?

I do not presume to give you my arguments as unanswerable, but only to convince you that yours may be controverted, and that is sufficient to warrant my advice. Do not depend on yourself, for you do not know how to do yourself justice, nor on me; who even in your indiscretions never considered any thing but your heart and always adored you; but refer to your husband who sees you such as you are, and judges of you, exactly according to your real worth. Being, like all people of sensibility, ready to judge ill of those who appear insensible, I mistrusted his power of penetration into the secrets of susceptible minds, but since the arrival of our traveller, I find by his letters that he reads yours perfectly well, and that there is not a single emotion which escapes his observation. I find his remarks so just and acute, that I have almost changed my opinion to the other extreme; and I shall readily believe that your dispassionate people, who consult their eyes more than their hearts, judge better of other men’s passions, than your impetuous lively and vain persons like myself, who always begin by supposing themselves in another’s place, and can never see any thing but what they feel.

However it be, Mr. Wolmar is thoroughly acquainted with you, he esteems you, he loves you, and his destiny is blended with yours. What does he require, but that you would leave to him the entire direction of your conduct, with which you are afraid to trust yourself? Perhaps finding old age coming on, he is desirous, by some trials on which he may depend, to prevent those uneasy jealousies, which an old husband generally feels who is married to a young wife; perhaps the design he has in view requires that you should live in a state of familiarity with your friend, without alarming either your husband or yourself; perhaps he only means to give you a testimony of confidence and esteem, worthy of that which he entertains for you. You should never oppose such sentiments, as if the weight of them was too much for you to endure; and for my part, I think, that you cannot act more agreeably to the dictates of prudence and modesty, than by relying entirely on his tenderness and understanding.

Could you, without offending Mr. Wolmar, punish yourself for a vanity you never had, and prevent a danger which no longer exists? Remain alone with the philosopher, use all the superfluous precautions against him, which would formerly have been of such service to you; maintain the same reserve as if you still mistrusted your own heart and his, as well as your own virtue. Avoid all pathetic conversation, all tender recollection of time past; break off or prevent long _tete a tete_ interviews; be constantly surrounded by your children; do not stay long with him in a room, in elysium, or in the grove notwithstanding the profanation. Above all things, use these precautions in so natural a manner, that they may seem to be the effect of chance, and that he may never once suspect that you are afraid of him. You love to go upon the water; but you deprive yourself of the pleasure on account of your husband who is afraid of that element, and of your children whom you do not chuse to venture there. Take the advantage of this absence, to entertain yourself with this recreation, and leave your children to the care of Fanny. By this means you may securely devote yourself to the sweet familiarity of friendship, and quietly enjoy a long _tete a tete_ under the protection of the watermen, who see without understanding, and from whom we cannot go far without thinking what we are about.

A thought strikes me which many people would laugh at, but which will be agreeable to you, I am sure; that is to keep an exact journal in your husband’s absence, to shew him on his return, and to think on this journal, with regard to every circumstance which is to be set down in it. In truth, I do not believe that such an expedient would be of service to many women; but a sincere mind, incapable of deceit, has many resources against vice, which others stand in need of. We ought to despise nothing which tends to preserve a purity of manners, and it is by means of trifling precautions, that great virtues are secured.

Upon the whole, as your husband is to see me in his way, he will tell me, I hope, the true reasons of his journey, and if I do not find them substantial, I will persuade him from proceeding any farther, or at all events, I will do what he has refused to do: upon this you may depend. In the mean time, I think I have said enough to fortify you against a trial of eight days. Go, Eloisa, I know you too well not to answer for you as much, nay more than I could for myself. You will always be what you ought to be, and what you desire to be. If you do but rely on the integrity of your own mind, you will run no risk whatever; for I have no faith in these unforeseen defects; it is in vain to disguise voluntary failings by the idle appellation of weaknesses; no woman was ever yet overcome who had not an inclination to surrender; and if I thought that such a fate could attend you, believe me, trust to the tenderness of my friendship, rely on all the sentiments which would arise in the heart of your poor Clara, I should be too sensibly interested in your protection, to abandon you entirely to yourself.

As to what Mr. Wolmar declared to you concerning the intelligence he received before your marriage, I am not much surprized at it; you know I always suspected it; and I will tell you, moreover, that my suspicions are not confined to the indiscretions of B----. I could never suppose that a man of truth and integrity like your father, and who had some suspicions at least himself, would resolve to impose upon his son-in-law and his friend. If he engaged you so strictly to secrecy, it was because the mode of discovery would come from him in a very different manner to what it would have proceeded from you, and because he was willing no doubt to give it a turn less likely to disgust Mr. Wolmar, than that which he very well knew you would not fail to give it yourself. But I must dismiss your messenger, we will chat about there matters more at our leisure about a month hence.