however, to change my design, but to justify it.
I had it in my hand this morning, perusing again, with some uneasiness of mind, those too sensible and judicious arguments that made against me, when somebody knocked at the door of my chamber. It was opened, and immediately entered Lord B----, without his sword, leaning on his cane; he was followed by three gentlemen, one of whom I observed to be Mr. Orbe. Surprized at a visit so unexpected, I waited silently for the consequence; when my Lord requested of me a moment’s audience and begged leave to say, and do, as he pleased without interruption. You must, says he, give me your express permission: the presence of these gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuse you from any supposed indiscretion. I promised without hesitation not to interrupt him; when, to my great astonishment, his Lordship immediately fell upon his knee. Surprized at seeing him in such an attitude, I would have raised him up; but, after putting me in mind of my promise, he proceeded in the following words. “I am come, Sir, to make an open retraction of the abuse, which, when in liquor, I uttered in your company. The injustice of such behaviour renders it more injurious to me than to you; and therefore I ought publicly to disavow it. I submit to whatever punishment you please to inflict on me, and shall not think my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me the pardon I ask, on what conditions you think fit, and restore me your friendship.” My Lord, returned I, I have the truest sense of your generosity and greatness of mind, and take a pleasure in distinguishing between the discourse which your heart dictates, and that which may escape you when you are not yourself: let that in question be for ever forgotten, I immediately raised him, and, falling into my arms, he cordially embraced me. Then, turning about to the company, “Gentlemen, said he, I thank you for your complaisance. Men of honour, like you,” added he, with a bold air and resolute tone of voice, “know that he who thus repairs the injury he has done, will not submit to an injury from any man. You may publish what you have seen.”
He then invited all of us to sup with him this evening, and the gentlemen left us. We were no sooner alone, than his lordship embraced me again, in a more tender and friendly manner; then, taking me by the hand, and seating himself down by me, happy man! said he, may you long enjoy the felicity you deserve! The heart of Eloisa is yours, may you be both.----What do you mean, my Lord? said I, interrupting him; have you lost your senses? No, returned he, smiling, but I was very near losing them, and it had perhaps been all over with me, if she who took them away, had not restored them. He then gave me a letter that I was surprized to see written by a hand, which never before wrote to any man but myself. What emotions did I feel in its perusal. I traced the passion of an incomparable woman who would make a sacrifice of herself to save her lover; and I discovered Eloisa. But when I came to the passage, wherein she protests she would never survive the most fortunate of men, how did I not shudder at the dangers I had escaped!
I could not help complaining that I was loved too well, and my fears convinced me you are mortal. Ah! restore me that courage of which you have deprived me! I had enough to set death at defiance, when it threatened only myself, but I shrunk when my better half was in danger.
While I was indulging myself in these cruel reflections, I paid little attention to his lordship’s discourse; till I heard the name of Eloisa. His conversation gave me pleasure as it did not excite my jealousy. He seemed extremely to regret his having disturbed our mutual passion and your repose; he respects you indeed beyond any other woman in the world; and, being ashamed to excuse himself to you, begged me to receive his apology in your name, and to prevail on you to accept it. “I consider you, says he, as her representative, and cannot humble myself too much to one she loves; being incapable, without having compromised the affair, to address myself personally to her, or even mention her name to you.” He frankly confessed to me he had entertained for you those sentiments, which every one must do who looks too intensely on Eloisa; but that his was rather a tender admiration than love; that he had formed neither hope nor pretension: but had given up all thoughts of either, on hearing of our connections; and that the injurious discourse which escaped him was the effect of liquor, and not of jealousy. He talked of love like a philosopher, who thinks his mind superior to the passions; but, for my part, I am mistaken if he has not already felt a passion, which will prevent any other from taking deep root in his breast. He mistakes a weakness of heart for the effect of reason; but I know that to love Eloisa, and be willing to renounce her, is not among the virtues of human nature.
He desired me to give him the history of our amour, and an account of the causes which prevented our happiness. I thought that, after the explicitness of your letter, a partial confidence might be dangerous and unreasonable. I made it therefore compleat, and he listened to me with an attention that convinced me of his sincerity. More than once I saw the tears come into his eyes, while his heart seemed most tenderly affected: above all, I observed the powerful impressions which the triumphs of virtue made on his mind; and I please myself in having raised up for Claud Anet a new protector, no less zealous than your father. When I had done, there are neither incidents nor adventures, said he, in what you have related; and yet the catastrophe of a Romance could not equally affect me; so well is a want of variety atoned for by sentiments; and of striking actions supplied by instances of a virtuous behaviour. Yours are such extraordinary minds that they are not to be guided by common rules: your happiness is not to be attained in the same manner, nor is it of the same species with that of others. They seek power and pre-eminence; you require only tenderness and tranquillity. There is blended with your affections a virtuous emulation, that elevates both; and you would be less deserving of each other if you were not mutually in love. But love, he presumed to say, will one day lose its power (forgive him, Eloisa, that blasphemous expression, spoken in the ignorance of his heart) the power of love, said he, will one day be lost, while that of virtue will remain. Oh my Eloisa! may our virtues but subsist as long as our love! Heaven will require no more.
In fine, I found that the philosophical inflexibility of his nation had no influence over the natural humanity of this honest Englishman; but that his heart was really interested in our difficulties. If wealth and credit can be useful to us, I believe we have some reason to depend on his service. But alas! how shall credit or riches operate to make us happy?
This interview, in which we did not count the hours, lasted till dinner time; I ordered a pullet for dinner, after which we continued our discourse. Among other topics, we fell upon the step his lordship had taken, with regard to myself in the morning; on which I could not help expressing my surprize at a procedure so solemn and uncommon.
But, repeating the reasons he had already given me, he added, that to give a partial satisfaction was unworthy a man of courage: that he ought to make a compleat one or none at all; lest he should only debase himself without making any reparation; and lest a concession made involuntarily, and with an ill grace, should be attributed to fear. Besides, continued he, my reputation is established; I can do you justice without incurring the suspicion of cowardice; but you, who are young and just beginning the world, ought to clear yourself so well of the first affair you are engaged in as to tempt no one to involve you in a second. The world is full of those artful cowards, who are upon the catch, as one may say, to taste their man; that is, to find out some greater coward than themselves to shew their valour upon. I would save a man of honour, like you, the trouble of chastising such scoundrels; I had rather, if they want a lesson, that they should take it of me than you: for one quarrel, more or less, on the hands of a man, who has already had many, signifies nothing; whereas it is a kind of disgrace to have had but one, and the lover of Eloisa should be exempt from it.
This is, in abstract, my long conversation with Lord B----; of which I thought proper to give you an account, that you might prescribe the manner in which I ought to behave to him.
As you ought now to be composed, chase from your mind, I conjure you, those dreadful apprehensions which have found a place there for some days past. Think of the care you should take in the uncertainty of your present condition. O should you soon give me life in a third being! Should a charming pledge----Too flattering hope! Dost thou come again to deceive me? I wish! I fear! I am lost in perplexity! Oh!
Thou dearest charmer of my heart, let us live but to love, and let heaven dispose of us, as it may?
P. S. I forgot to tell you that my Lord offered me your letter, and that I made no difficulty of taking it; thinking it improper that it should remain in the hands of a third person. I will return it you the first time I see you: for, as to myself, I have no occasion for it; it is deeply engraven in my heart.
Letter LXI. From Eloisa.
Bring my Lord B---- hither to-morrow, that I may throw myself at his feet, as he has done at yours. What greatness of mind! What generosity! Oh how little, do we seem, compared to him! Preserve so inestimable a friend as you would the apple of your eye. Perhaps he would be less valuable, were he of a more even temper; was there ever a man without some vices who had great virtues?
A thousand distresses of various kinds had sunk my spirits to the lowest ebb; but your letter has rekindled my extinguished hopes. In dissipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety the more supportable.
I feel now I have strength enough to bear up under it. You live, you love me; neither your own nor the blood of your friend has been spilt, and your honour is secured; I am not then compleatly miserable.
Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had so much reason for seeing you, nor so little hope of having that pleasure long. Farewell, my dear friend, instead of saying let us live but to love, you should have said alas! let us love that we may live.
Letter LXII. From Clara.
Must I be always, my dear cousin, under the necessity of performing the most disagreeable offices of friendship? Must I always, in the bitterness of my own heart, be giving affliction to yours, by cruel intelligence? Our sentiments, alas! are the same, and you are sensible I can give no new uneasiness to you which I have not first experienced myself. O that I could but conceal your misfortune without increasing it! or that a friendship like ours were not as binding as love! How readily might I throw off that chagrin I am now obliged to communicate. Last night, when the concert was over, and your mother and you were gone home, in company with your friend and Mr. Orbe, our two fathers and my Lord B---- were left to talk politics together; the disagreeableness of the subject, of which indeed I am quite surfeited, soon made me retire to my own chamber. In about half an hour, I heard the name of your friend repeated with some vehemence; on which I found the conversation had changed its subject, and therefore listened to it with some attention; when I gathered, by what followed, that his lordship had ventured to propose a match between you and your friend, whom he frankly called his, and on whom, as such, he offered to make a suitable settlement. Your father rejected the proposal with disdain, and upon that the conversation began to grow warm. “I must tell you sir, said my lord, that, notwithstanding your prejudices, he is of all men the most worthy of her, and perhaps the most likely to make her happy. He has received from nature every gift that is independent of the world; and has embellished them by all those talents, which depended on himself. He is young, tall, well-made, and ingenious: he has the advantages of education, sense, manners, and courage; he has a fine genius and a sound mind; what then does he require to make him worthy of your daughter? Is it a fortune? He shall have one. A third part of my own will make him the richest man of this country; nay, I will give him, if it be necessary, the half. Does he want a title?
Ridiculous prerogative, in a country where nobility is more troublesome than useful! But, doubt it not, he is noble: not that his nobility is made out in writing upon an old parchment, but it is engraven in indelible characters on his heart. In a word if you prefer the dictates of reason and sense to groundless prejudices, and if you love your daughter better than empty titles, you will give her to him.”
On this your father expressed himself in a violent passion: he treated the proposal as absurd and ridiculous. How! my lord! said he, is it possible a man of honour, as you are, can entertain such a thought, that the last surviving branch of an illustrious family should go to lose and degrade its name, in that of nobody knows who; a fellow without home, and reduced to subsist upon charity. Hold, sir, interrupted my lord, you are speaking of my friend; consider that I must take upon myself every injury done him in my company, and that such language as is injurious to a man of honour, is more so to him who makes use of it. Such _fellows_ are more respectable than all the country squires in Europe; and I defy you to point out a more honourable way to fortune, than by excepting the debts of esteem, and the gifts of friendship. If my friend does not trace his descent, as you do, from a long and doubtful succession of ancestors, he will lay the foundation, and be the honour of his own house, as the first of your ancestors did that of yours. Can you think yourself dishonoured by your alliance to the head of your family, without falling under the contempt you have for him? How many great families would sink again into oblivion, if we respected only those which descended from truly respectable originals? Judge of the past by the present; for two or three honest citizens ennobled by virtuous means, a thousand knaves find every day the way to aggrandize themselves and families. But to what end serves that nobility, of which their descendants are so proud, unless it be to prove the injustice and infamy of their ancestors? [12] There are, I must confess, a great number of bad men among the common people; but the odds are always twenty to one against a gentleman, that he is descended from a rascal. Let us, if you will, set aside descent, and compare only merit and utility. You have borne arms in the service and pay of a foreign prince; his father fought without pay in the service of his country. If you have well served, you have been well paid; and, whatever honour you may have acquired by arms, a hundred plebeians may have acquired still more.
In what consists the honour then, continued my lord, of that nobility of which you are so tenacious? How does it affect the glory of one’s country or the good of mankind? A mortal enemy to liberty and the laws, what did it ever produce in most of those countries where it has flourished, but the rod of tyranny and the oppression of the people?
Will you presume to boast, in a republic, of a rank that is destructive to virtue and humanity? Of a rank that makes its boast of slavery, and wherein men blush to be men? Read the annals of your own country; what have any of the nobility merited of her? Were any of her deliverers nobles? The _Fursts_, the _Tills_, the _Stauffachers_, were they gentlemen? What then is that absurd honour, about which you make so much noise?
Think, my dear, what I suffered to hear this respectable man thus injure, by an ill-concerted application, the cause of that friend whom he endeavoured to serve. Your father, being irritated by so many galling, though general invectives, strove to retort them by personal ones. He told his lordship plainly, that never any man of his condition talked in the manner he had done. Trouble not yourself to plead another’s cause, added he roughly, honourable as you are, I doubt much if you could make your own good, on the subject in question. You demand my daughter for your pretended friend, without knowing whether you are yourself an equal match for her; and I know enough of the English nobility to entertain, from your discourse, a very indifferent opinion of yours.
To this his lordship answered; whatever you may think of me, sir, I should be very sorry to be able to give no other proof of my merit than the name of a man who died five hundred years ago. If you know the nobility of England, you know that it is the least prejudiced, best informed, most sensible, and bravest of all Europe; after which it is needless to ask whether it be the most ancient; for, when we talk of what is, we never mind what was. We are not, it is true, the slaves, but the friends of a prince; not the oppressors of a people, but their leaders. The guardians of liberty, the pillars of our country, and the support of the throne, we maintain an equilibrium between the people and the king. Our first regards are due to the nation, our second to him that governs: we consult not his will, but his just prerogative. Supreme judges in the house of peers, and sometimes legislators, we render equal justice to the king and people, and suffer no one to say _God and my sword, but only God and my right._ Such, sir, continued he, is that respectable nobility with which you are unacquainted; as ancient as any other, but more proud of its merit than of its ancestors. I am one, not the lowest in rank of that illustrious order, and believe, whatever be your pretensions, that I am your equal in every respect. I have a sister unmarried; she is young, amiable, rich and in no wise inferior to Eloisa, except in those qualities which with you pass for nothing. Now, sir, if after being enamoured with your daughter, it were possible for any one to change the object of his affections and admire another, I should think it an honour to accept the man for my brother, though he had nothing, whom I propose to you for a son with half my estate.
I knew matters would be only aggravated by your father’s reply; and, though I was struck with admiration at my Lord B----’s generosity, I saw plainly that he would totally ruin the negotiation he had undertaken. I went in, therefore, to prevent things from going farther.
My entrance broke up the conversation, and immediately after they coldly took leave of each other, and parted. As to my father, he behaved very well in the dispute. At first he seconded the proposal; but, finding that yours would hear nothing of it, he took the side of his brother-in-law, and, by taking proper opportunities to moderate the contest, prevented them from going beyond those bounds they would certainly have trespassed, had they been alone. After their departure, he related to me what had happened; and, as I foresaw where his discourse would end, I readily told him, that things being in such a situation, it would be improper the person in question should see you so often here; and that it would be better for him not to come hither at all, if such an intimation would not be putting a kind of affront on Mr. Orbe, his friend; but that I should desire him to bring Lord B---- less frequently for the future. This, my dear, was the best I could do to prevent our door being entirely shut against him.
But this is not all. The crisis in which you stand at present obliges me to return to my former advice. The affair between my Lord B---- and your friend has made all the noise in town, which was natural to expect. For, though Mr. Orbe has kept the original cause of their quarrel a secret, the circumstances are too public, to suffer it to lie concealed. Every one has suspicions, makes conjectures, and some go so far as to name Eloisa. The report of the watch was not so totally suppressed but it is remembered; and you are not ignorant that, in the eye of the world, a bare suspicion of the truth is looked upon as evidence. All that I can say for your consolation is, that in general your choice is approved, and every body thinks with pleasure on the union of so charming a couple. This confirms me in the opinion that your friend has behaved himself well in this country, and is not less beloved than yourself. But what is the public voice to your inflexible father? All this talk has already reached, or will come to his ear; and I tremble to think of the effect it may produce, if you do not speedily take some measures to prevent his anger. You must expect from him an explanation terrible to yourself, and perhaps still worse for your friend. Not that I think, at his age, he will condescend to challenge a young man he thinks unworthy his sword: but the influence he has in the town will furnish him, if he has a mind to it, with a thousand means to stir up a party against him; and it is to be feared that his passion will be too ready to excite him to do it.
On my knees, therefore, I conjure you, my dear friend, to think on the dangers that surround you, and the terrible risk you run; which increases every moment. You have been extremely fortunate to escape hitherto, in the midst of such hazards; but, while it is yet time, I beg of you to let the veil of prudence be thrown over the secret of your amours; and not to push your fortune farther; lest it should involve in your misfortunes the man who has been the cause of them.
Believe me, my dear, the future is uncertain, a thousand accidents may happen unexpectedly, in your favour; but, for the present, I have said and repeat it more earnestly, send away your friend, or you are undone.
Letter LXIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
All that you foresaw, my dear, is come to pass. Last night, about an hour after we got home, my father entered my mother’s apartment, his eyes sparkling and his countenance inflamed with anger; in a word, so irritated as I never saw him before. I found immediately that he had either just left a quarrel, or was seeking occasion to begin one; and my guilty conscience made me tremble for the consequence.
He began by exclaiming violently, but in general terms, against such mothers as indiscreetly invite to their houses young fellows without family or fortune, whose acquaintance only brings shame and scandal on those who cultivate it. Finding this not sufficient to draw an answer from an intimidated woman, he brought up particularly, as an example, what had passed in our own house, since she had introduced a pretended wit, an empty chatterer, more fit to debauch the mind of a modest young woman than to instruct her in any thing that is good.
My mother, who now saw she should get little by holding her tongue, took him up at the word debauch, and asked what he had ever seen in the conduct, or knew of the character of the person he spoke of, to authorize such base suspicions. I did not conceive, she added, that genius and merit were to be excluded from society. To whom, pray, would you have your house open, if fine talents and good behaviour have no pretensions to admittance? To our equals, Madam, he replied in a fury; to such as might repair the honour of a daughter if they should injure it. No, sir, said she, but rather to people of virtue who cannot injure it. Know, Madam, that the presumption of soliciting an alliance with my family, without a title to that honour, is highly injurious. So far from thinking it injurious, returned my mother, I think it, on the contrary, the highest mark of esteem: but, I know not that the person you exclaim against has made any such pretensions. He has done it, Madam, and will do worse, if I do not take proper care to prevent him; but, for the future, I shall take upon myself the charge you have executed so ill.
On this began a dangerous altercation between them; by which I found they were both ignorant of those reports, which you say have been spread about the town. During this time your unworthy cousin could, nevertheless, have wished herself buried a hundred feet in the earth.
Think of the best and most abused of mothers lavishing encomiums on her guilty daughter, and praising her for all those virtues she has lost, in the most respectful, or rather to me the most mortifying terms. Think of an angry father, profuse of injurious expressions; and yet in the height of his indignation, not letting one escape him in the least reflecting on the prudence of her, who, torn by remorse and humbled with shame, could hardly support his presence.
O the inconceivable torture of a bleeding heart, reproaching itself with unsuspected crimes! How depressing and insupportable is the burthen of unmerited praise, and of an esteem of which the heart is conscious it is unworthy! I was indeed so terribly oppressed, that, in order to free myself from so cruel a situation, I was just going, if the impetuosity of his temper would have given me time, to confess all. But he was so enraged as to repeat over and over a hundred times the same things, and to change the subject every moment. He took notice of my looks, cast down, and affrighted, in consequence of my remorse; and if he did not construe them into those of my guilt he did into looks of my love; but, to shame me the more, he abused the object of it in terms so odious and contemptible that, in spite of all my endeavours, I could not let him proceed without interruption. I know not whence my dear, I had so much courage, or how I came so far to trespass the bounds of modesty and duty: but, if I ventured to break for a moment that respectful silence they dictate, I suffered for it, as you will see, very severely. For Heaven’s sake, my dear father, said I, be pacified: never could your daughter be in danger from a man deserving such abuse. I had scarce spoken, when, as if he had felt himself reproved by what I said, or that his passion wanted only a pretext for extremities, he flew upon your poor friend, and for the first time in my life I received from him a box on the ear: nor was this all but, giving himself up entirely to his passion, he proceeded to beat me without mercy, notwithstanding my mother threw herself in between us, to screen me from his blows, and, received many of those which were intended for me. At length, in running back to avoid them, my foot slipt, and I fell down with my face against the foot of a table.
Here ended the triumph of passion, and begun that of nature. My fall, the sight of my blood, my tears, and those of my mother greatly affected him. He raised me up with an air of affliction and solicitude; and, having placed me in a chair, they both eagerly enquired where I was hurt. I had received only a slight bruise on my forehead, and bled only at the nose. I saw nevertheless, by the alteration in the air and voice of my father, that he was displeased at what he had done. He was not, however, immediately reconciled to me; paternal authority did not permit so abrupt a change; but he apologized with many tender excuses to my mother; and I saw plainly, by the looks he cast on me, to whom half of his apologies were indirectly addressed. Surely, my dear, these is no confusion so affecting as that of a tender father, who thinks himself to blame in his treatment of a child.
Supper being ready, it was ordered to be put back that I might have time to compose myself; and my father, unwilling the servants should see any thing of my disorder, went himself for a glass of water; while my mother was bathing the contusion on my forehead. Ah, my dear how I pitied her! already in a very ill and languishing state of health, how gladly would she have been excused from being witness to such a scene!
How little less did she stand in need of assistance than I!
At supper my father did not speak to me, but I could see his silence was the effect of shame, and not of disdain: he pretended to find every thing extremely good, in order to bid my mother help me to it; and, what touched me the most sensibly was, that he took all occasions to call me his daughter, and not Eloisa, as is customary with him.
After supper the evening was so cold that my mother ordered a fire in her chamber; she placing herself on one fire and my father on the other. I went to take a chair, to sit down in the middle; when, laying hold of my gown and drawing me gently to him, he placed me on his knee, without speaking a word. This was done so immediately, and by a sort of involuntarily impulse, that he seemed to be almost sorry for it a moment afterwards. But I was on his knee, and he could not well push me from him again, and, what added to his apparent condescension, he was obliged to support me with his arms in that attitude. All this passion in a kind of reluctant silence; but I perceived him, every now and then, ready to give me an involuntary embrace, which however he resisted, at the same time endeavouring to stifle a sigh, which came from the bottom of his heart. A certain false shame prevented his paternal arms from clasping me with that tenderness he too, plainly felt; a certain gravity, he was ashamed to depart from, a confusion he durst not overcome, occasioned between a father and his daughter the same charming embarrassment, as love and modesty cause between lovers; in the mean while a most affectionate mother, transported with pleasure, secretly enjoyed the delightful sight. I saw, I felt it all, and could no longer support a scene of such melting tenderness. I pretended to slip down; and, to save myself, threw my arm round my father’s neck, laying my face close to his venerable cheek, which I pressed with repeated kisses and bathed with my tears. At the same time, by those which flowed plentifully from his eyes, I could perceive him greatly relieved; while my mother, embraced us both and partook of our transports. How sweet; how peaceful is innocence! which alone was wanting to make this the most delightful moment of my life.
This morning, lassitude and the pain I felt from my fall having kept me in bed later than usual, my father came into my chamber before I was up; when, asking kindly after my health, he sat down by the side of my bed; and, taking one of my hands into his, he condescended so far as to kiss it several times, calling me at the same time his dear daughter, and expressing his sorrow for his resentment. I told him I should think myself but too happy to suffer as much every day to have the pleasure he then gave me in return; and that the severest treatment I could receive from him would be fully recompensed, by the smallest instance of his kindness.
Then putting on a more serious air, he resumed the subject of yesterday, and signified his pleasure in civil but positive terms. You know, says he, the husband I designed for you: I intimated to you my intentions concerning him on my arrival, and shall never change them, on that head. As to the man whom Lord B---- spoke of, though I shall not dispute the merit every body allows him, I know not whether he has of himself conceived the ridiculous hopes of being allied to me, or if it has been instilled into him by others; but, be assured, that, had I even no other person in view, and he was in possession of all the guineas in England, I would never accept him for my son-in-law. I forbid you, therefore, either to see or speak to him as long as you live, and that as well for the sake of his honour as your own. I never indeed felt any great regard for him: but I now mortally hate him for the outrages he has been the occasion of my committing, and shall never forgive him the violence I have been guilty of.
Having said this, he rose and left me, without waiting for my answer, and with the same air of severity, which he had just reproached himself for assuming before. Ah, my dear cousin, what an infernal monster is prejudice, that depraves the best hearts, and puts the voice of nature every moment to silence!
Thus ended the explanation you predicted, and of which I could not comprehend the reason till your letter informed me. I cannot well tell what revolution it has occasioned in my mind; but I find myself ever since greatly altered. I seem to look back with more regret to that happy time, when I lived content and tranquil with my family friends around me; and that the sense of my error increases with that of the blessings of which it has deprived me. Tell me, my severe monitor, tell me if you dare be so cruel, are the joyful hours of love all gone and fled? And will they never more return? Do you perceive, alas, how gloomy and horrible is that sad apprehension? And yet my father’s commands are positive; the danger of my lover is certain. Think, my dear Clara, on the result of such opposite emotions, destroying the effects of each other in my heart. A kind of stupidity has taken possession of me, which makes me almost insensible, and leaves me neither the use of my passions nor my reason. The present moment, you tell me, is critical; I know, I feel it is: and yet I was never more incapable to conduct myself than now. I have sat down more than twenty times to write to my lover: but I am ready to sink at every line. I have no resource, my dear friend, but in you. Let me prevail on you then to think, to speak, to act, for me. I put myself into your hands: whatever step you think proper to take, I hereby confirm before hand every thing you do; I commit to your friendship that sad authority over a lover which I have bought so dear. Divide me for ever from myself. Kill me, if I must die; but do not force me to plunge the dagger in my own breast. O my good angel! my protectress! what an employment do I engage you in! Can you have the courage to go through it? Can you find means to soften its severity? It is not my heart alone you will rend to pieces. You know, Clara, yes, you know, how sincerely I am beloved; that I have not even the consolation of being the most to be pitied. Let my heart, I beseech you, speak from your lips, and let yours sympathize with the tender compassion of love.
Comfort the poor unfortunate youth, tell him, ah, tell him, again and again----do you not think so, my dear friend? Do you not think that, in spite of prepossessions and prejudice, in spite of all obstacles and crosses, Heaven has made us for each other? Yes, tell him so, I am sure of it, we are destined to be happy. It is impossible for me to lose sight of that prospect: it is impossible for me to give up that delightful hope. Tell him, therefore, not to be too much afflicted; not to give way to despair. You need not trouble yourself to exact a promise of eternal love and fidelity; and still less to make him a needless promise of mine. Is not the assurance of both firmly rooted in our hearts? Do we not feel that we are indivisible, and that we