V. You are surely in jest. · Part 19

For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin; [89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with delight.

Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share. Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity.

As to the old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no, were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and, provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing, and allow me a superiority to himself.

The only thing I cannot forgive him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two; we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age, also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.

It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’ carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.

We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press, fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_, reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is done.

We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without affectation.

This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely, more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than monarchs surrounded with guards.

In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92] Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire in it.

On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr. Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table, master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion, subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.

Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for my weakness.

After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is, not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart, and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.

The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in the relation of harmonious sounds.

Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do better, and so spoil all.

There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening, as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours, to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it; made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse, make a jest of it.

In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs. Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire. Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour, chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.

Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.

Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have received at your hands.

Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode, that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.

As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless forgive the shame which attends my repentance.

Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B---- has told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you? shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.

How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.

You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.

I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see Lord B---- happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps a secret register of your good actions.

Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.

Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have deposited it in your hands.

The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor, a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure, the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any one who was dear to me. My Lord B----, being apprehensive of a sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house, we could not elude your friendly vigilance.

Your door half open and your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B----, was a witness of that difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.

I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My Lord B----, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to retire.

As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation, though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy, the delirium of love.

On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for having been so little sensible of my happiness!----did I weep then? ----didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!----thou shall weep no more ----thou hast no right to weep.----Why is she not dead? said I, in a transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say, She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans, she approves and accepts of my homage.----I should then, at least, have cherished the hope of being united to her again.----But she lives and is happy in the possession of another.----She lives, and her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven, having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure of regretting her loss----she lives, but not for me: she lives for my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she were no more.

I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.

Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed, and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child, answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be obeyed----you will be a mother in your turn, and----she could say no more----On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face, appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops of sweat, and drowned in tears.

My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it covered.

On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed, without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber, like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B---- and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost breathless, crying out, She is gone----she is gone----I shall never see her more.----His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such confusion.

He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but, seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame, says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself; tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.

We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in your brain.

What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’ every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together; but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.

This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara, when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back, proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end, and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have it said of a friend of Lord B----’s, that he could not get the better of a dream.

This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate the inseparables.

We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara! no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!

Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.

We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting that the Alps were between us.

With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies, in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous, as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.

As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself; always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding yourself in the morning.

I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came, does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then, however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not seeing your confusion.

Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them. That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied, and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed.

I cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that, after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your friends; it were better for you to do this and be a _visionary mortal_, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.

It appears by a letter of Lord B----’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined, and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above all that of your friend,

Clara Orbe.

P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium, it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and severe enough to verify the proverb, that _listeners seldom, hear any good of themselves_.

Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.

As I write to Lord B----, and explain myself so fully with respect to you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.

So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream, that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are visionary.

What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening, I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what is doing at Vevey.

The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however, will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth! to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it; it is from you only I expect it.

Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.

Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction, your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this critical moment, though but for one week.

I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of which she has taken the advantage.

It would be difficult indeed for any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing, one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who could see and converse with her without danger.

Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord B---- contract such a marriage? can you think it----under the eve of his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.

But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty, we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me, that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my party is not to irritate him by dispute.

Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B----, stands in awe of his friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry, that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest. He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend. You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that maxim in the present case.

In fact, the motives of compassion, of a contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing that determines my Lord B---- on this occasion, are of that inferior nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy? but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every other in vain.

Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast, Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B----.

If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known nothing of it. [93]

Letter CXLIX. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe

The courier from Italy seemed only to wait for your departure, for his own arrival; as if to punish you for having staid only for him. Not that I myself made the pretty discovery of the cause of your loitering: it was my husband who observed, that after the horses had been put to at eight o’clock, you deferred your departure till eleven; not out of regard to us, but for a reason easy to be guessed at; from your asking twenty times, if it was ten o’clock, because the post generally goes by at that time.

Yes, my dear cousin, you are caught; you cannot deny it. In spite of the prophetic Chaillot, her Clara, so wild, or rather so discreet, has not been so to the end. You are caught in the same toils from which you took so much pains to extricate your friend, and have not been able to preserve that liberty yourself, to which you restored me. It is my turn to laugh now. Ah my dear friend, one ought to have your talents to know how to laugh like you, and give even to raillery the affecting turn and appearance of kindness. Besides, what a difference in our situation! with what face can I divert myself with an evil, of which I am the cause, and from which you have taken upon yourself, to free me. There is not a sentiment in your breast that does not awake a sense of gratitude in mine, even your weakness being in you the effect of virtue. It is this which consoles and diverts me. My errors are to be lamented; but one may laugh at the false modesty which makes you blush at a passion as innocent as yourself.

But to return to your Italian courier, and leave moralizing for a while. This courier then, who has been so long in coming, you will ask what he has brought us. Nothing but good news of our friends, and a letter as big as a packet for you. O ho! I see you smile and take breath now. As the letter is sent you, however, you will doubtless wait patiently to know what it contains. It may yet nevertheless be of some estimation, even though it did not come when expected; for it breathes such a----but I will only write news to you, and I dare say what I was going to say is none.

With that letter is come another from Lord B----, to my husband, with a great many compliments also for us. This contains some real news, which is so much the more unexpected, as the first was silent on the subject. Our friends at Rome were to set out the next day for Naples, where Lord B---- has some business; and from whence they are to go to see mount Vesuvius.----Can you conceive, my dear, that such a sight can be entertaining? but on their return to Rome, think, Clara, guess what may happen.----Lord B---- is on the point of being married---- not, I thank heaven, to that unworthy marchioness, who he tells us on the contrary, is much indisposed. To whom then?----To Laura, the amiable Laura, who----yet, what a marriage! Our friend says not a word about it. Immediately after the marriage, they will all three set out and come thither, to take their future measures. What they are to be, my husband has not told me; but he expects that St. Preux will stay with us.

I must confess to you his silence gives me some little uneasiness; I cannot see clearly through it. I think I see an odd peculiarity of circumstances and contest of human passions absolutely unintelligible. I cannot see how so good a man should contract so lasting an affection for so bad a woman as the marchioness, or indeed, how a woman of such a violent and cruel temper could entertain so ardent a love, if one may so call her guilty passion for a man of so different a disposition. Neither can I imagine, how a young creature, so generous, affectionate and disinterested as Laura, could be able to support her first dissoluteness of manners; how that flattering and deceitful tenderness of heart, which misleads our sex, should recover her; how love, which is the ruin of so many modest women, should make her chaste.

Will Lady B---- then come hither? hither, my dear Clara! what do you think of it? after all, what a prodigy must that astonishing woman be, who, ruined by a dissolute and abandoned education, was reclaimed by her tenderness of heart, and whom love hath conducted to virtue! ought any one to admire her more than I, who have acted quite contrary; who was led astray by inclination, when every thing else conspired to conduct me in the paths of virtue. I sunk not so low it is true; but have I raised myself like her? have I avoided so many snares, and made such sacrifices as she has made? from the lowest ignominy she has risen to the highest degree of honour, and is a thousand times more respectable than if she had never fallen. She has sense and virtue: what needs she more to resemble us? if it be impossible for a woman to repair the errors of her youth, what right have I to more indulgence than she? with whom can I hope to stand excused, and to what respect can I pretend, if I refuse to respect her.

And yet, though my reason tells me this, my heart speaks against it; and, without being able to tell why, I cannot think it right that Lord B---- should contract such a marriage, and that his friend should be concerned in the affair. Such is the force of prejudice! so difficult is it to shake off the yoke of public opinion! which, nevertheless, generally induces us to be unjust: the past good is effaced by the present evil; but, is the past evil ever effaced by any present good?

I hinted to my husband my uneasiness, as to the conduct of St. Preux in this affair. He seems, said I, to be ashamed to speak of it to my cousin: I know he is incapable of baseness, but he is too easy, and may have too much indulgence for the foibles of a friend. No, answered he, he has done what he ought, and I know will continue to do so; this is all I am at liberty to tell you at present of the matter; but St. Preux is honest, and I will engage for him, you will be satisfied with his conduct.----It is impossible, Clara, that Wolmar can deceive me, or St. Preux him. So positive an assurance therefore fully satisfied me; and made me suspect my scruples to be the effect of a fallen delicacy, and that if I was less vain and more equitable, I should find Laura more deserving the rank of Lady B----.

But to take leave of her for the present, and return to ourselves. Don’t you perceive too well, in reading this letter, that our friends are likely to return sooner than we expected? and is not your heart a little affected by it? does it not flutter, and beat quicker than ordinary? that heart too susceptible, and too nearly akin to mine? is it not apprehensive of the danger of living familiarly with a beloved object? to see him every day? to sleep under the same roof? and if my errors did not lessen me in your esteem, does not my example give you reason to fear for yourself? In your younger years, how many apprehensions for my safety did not your good sense and friendship suggest, which a blind passion made me despise! It is now, my dear friend, my turn to be apprehensive for you, and I have the better claim to your regard; as what I have to offer is founded on sad experience. Attend to me then, ere it be too late; lest, having past half your life in lamenting my errors, you should pass the other in lamenting your own.

Above all things, place not too great a confidence in your gaiety of temper, which, though it may be a security to those who have nothing to fear, generally betrays those who are in real danger. You, my dear Clara, once laughed at love, but that was because you were a stranger to the passion, and not having felt its power, you thought yourself above its attacks. Love is avenged, and laughs in its turn at you. Learn to distrust its deceitful mirth, lest it should one day cost you an equal portion of grief. It is time, my dear friend, to lay you open to yourself; for hitherto you have not taken that interesting view: you are mistaken in your own character, and know not how to set a just value upon yourself. You consider in the opinion of Chaillot; who, because of your vivacity of disposition; judged you to be little susceptible of heart; but a heart like yours was beyond her talents to penetrate. Chaillot was incapable of knowing you, nor does any person in the world know you truly but myself. I have left you in your mistake so long as it could be of service to you, but at present it may be hurtful, and therefore it is necessary to undeceive you.

You are lively, and imagine yourself to have but little sensibility. How much, alas! are you deceived: your vivacity itself proves evidently the contrary. Is it not always exerted on sentimental subjects? does not even your pleasantry come from the heart? your raillery is a greater proof of your affection than the compliments of others; you smile, but your smiles penetrate our hearts; you laugh, but your laughter draws from us the tears of affection; and I have remarked, that among those who are indifferent to you, you are always serious.

If you really were no other than you pretend to be, tell me, what motive could have so forcibly united us? where had been those bonds of unparalleled friendship that now subsists between us? By what miracle should such an attachment give the preference to a heart so little capable of it? can she who lived but for her friend, be incapable of love? she who would have left father, husband, relations, and country to have followed her? what have I done in comparison of this! I, who have confessedly a susceptible heart, and permitted myself to love; yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible, could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection.

You pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction, and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband, however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.

Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own doubts, and if it be true,

_Ch’un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica._

I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this subject.

I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine; or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship, and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.

These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine; and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart, which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly. Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me, which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought, in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient sacrifice to virtue.

This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the preservation of yours?

Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion. The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which, long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself up to the passion you so many years contended with the more effectually to cure your friend.

I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.

Since our conversation in the _elysium_, I have not so much reason to be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your pleasantry; you don’t mention him so often; one would think you were in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than you confessed.

I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object; tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas! what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however, on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect, your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience, and that is the most important.

Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature and the dregs of mankind.

Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.

I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds, always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom, rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory, to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.

As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is reputable, tho’ obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress of a prince.

I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank, which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.

As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can read that heart which I too long studied, I don’t believe that on this occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret, danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a distinction between him and you.

But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may, the education of our children is still less important to us than the virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey, on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.

I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description, I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends. I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride’s mother, to invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu. Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I know not how I shall support two days more without you.

P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read: so, take your measures accordingly.

Letter CL. Harriot to her Mother.

Where are you then, mamma? They say at Geneva; which is such a long, long way off that one must ride two days, all day long, to reach you: surely, mamma, you don’t intend to go round the world? my little pappa is set out this morning for Etange; my little grand pappa is gone a hunting; my little mamma is gone into her closet to write; and there is nobody with me but Pernette and the Frenchwoman. Indeed, mamma, I don’t know how it is; but, since our good friend has left us, we are all scattered about strangely. You began first, mamma; you soon began to be tired, when you had nobody left to tease: but what is much worse since you are gone, is, that my little mamma is not so good humour’d as when you were here. My little boy is very well, but he does not love you; because you did not dance him yesterday as you used to do. As for me, I believe I should love you a little bit still, if you would return quickly, that one might not be so dull.

But, if you would make it up with me quite, you must bring my little boy something that would please him. To quiet him indeed, would not be very easy, you would be puzzled to know what to do with him. O that our good friend was but here now! for it is as he said, my fine fan is broke to pieces, my blue skirt is torn all to pieces, my white frock is in tatters; my mittens are no worth a farthing. Fare you well, mamma, I must here end my letter; for my little mamma has finished hers, and is coming out of her closet. I think her eyes are red, but I durst not say so: in reading this, however, she will see I observed it. My good mamma, you are certainly very naughty, to make my little mamma cry.