the order of things; and see whether you can find any good which is not intermingled with evil. Does it therefore follow that there is no good in the universe, and can you confound what is in its own nature evil, with that which is only an evil accidentally? You have confessed yourself, that the transitory and passive life of man is of no consequence, and only bears respect to matter, from which he will soon be disencumbered; but his active and moral life, which ought to have most influence over his nature, consists in the exercise of free-will.
Life is an evil to a wicked man in prosperity, and a blessing to an honest man in distress: for it is not its casual modification, but its relation to some final object, which makes it either good or bad.
After all, what are these cruel torments which force you to abandon life? do you imagine that under your affected impartiality in the enumeration of the evils of this life, I did not discover that you was ashamed to speak of your own? Trust me, and do not at once abandon every virtue. Preserve at least your wonted sincerity, and speak thus openly to your friend; I have lost all hope of seducing a modest woman, I am obliged therefore to be a man of virtue; I had much rather die.”
You are weary of living; and you tell me, that life is an evil. Sooner or later you will receive consolation, and then you will say life is a blessing. You will speak with more truth, though not with better reason; for nothing will have altered but yourself. Begin the alteration then from this day, and since all the evil you lament is in the disposition of your own mind, correct your irregular appetites, and do not set your house on fire, to avoid the trouble of putting it in order.
I endure misery, say you; is it in my power to avoid suffering? But this is changing the state of the question for the subject of enquiry is, not whether you suffer, but whether your life is an evil? Let us proceed. You are wretched, you naturally endeavour to extricate yourself from misery. Let us see whether, for that purpose, it is necessary to die.
Let us for a moment examine the natural tendency of the afflictions of the mind, as in direct opposition to the evils of the body, the two substances being of contrary natures. The latter become worse and more inveterate the longer they continue, and at length utterly destroy this mortal machine. The former, on the contrary, being only external and transitory modifications of an immortal and uncompounded essence, are insensibly effaced, and leave the mind in its original form, which is not susceptible of alteration. Grief, disquietude, regret, and despair, are evils of short duration which never take root in the mind, and experience always falsifies that bitter reflection, which makes us imagine our misery will have no end. I will go farther; I cannot imagine that the vices which contaminate us, are more inherent in our nature, than the troubles we endure; I not only believe that they perish with the body which gives them birth, but I think, beyond all doubt, that a longer life would be sufficient to reform mankind, and that many ages of youth would teach us that nothing is preferable to virtue.
However this may be, as the greatest part of our physical evils are incessantly increasing, the acute pains of the body, when they are incurable, may justify a man’s destroying himself; for all his faculties being distracted with pain, and the evil being without remedy, he has no longer any use either of his will or of his reason; he ceases to be a man before he is dead, and does nothing more in taking away his life, than quit a body which incumbers him, and in which his soul is no longer resident.
But it is otherwise with the afflictions of the mind; which, let them be ever so acute, always carry their remedy with them. In fact, what is it that makes any evil intolerable? nothing but its duration. The operations of surgery are generally much more painful, than the disorders they cure; but the pain occasioned by the latter is lasting, that of the operation is momentary, and therefore preferable. What occasion is there therefore for any operation to remove troubles which die of course by their duration, the only circumstance which could render them insupportable? Is it reasonable to apply such desperate remedies to evils which expire of themselves? To a man who values himself on his fortitude, and who estimates years at their real value, of two ways by which he may extricate himself from the same troubles, which will appear preferable, death or time? Have patience, and you will be cured. What would you desire more?
Oh! you will say, it doubles my afflictions, to reflect that they will cease at last! this is the vain sophistry of grief! an apothegm void of reason, of propriety, and perhaps of sincerity. What an absurd motive of despair is the hope of terminating misery! [48] Even allowing this fantastical reflection, who would not chuse to increase the present pain for a moment, under the assurance of putting an end to it, as we scarify a wound in order to heal it? and admitting any charm in grief, to make us in love with suffering, when we release ourselves from it by putting an end to our being, do we not at that instant incur all that we apprehend hereafter?
Reflect thoroughly, young man; what are ten, twenty, thirty years, in competition with immorality? pain and pleasure pass like a shadow; life slides away in an instant; it is nothing of itself; its value depends on the use we make of it. The good that we have done is all that remains, and it is that alone which marks its importance.
Therefore do not say any more that your existence is an evil, since it depends upon yourself to make it a blessing; and if it is an evil to have lived, this is an additional reason for prolonging life. Do not pretend neither to say any more that you are at liberty to die; for it is as much as to say that you have power to alter your nature, that you have a right to revolt against the Author of your being, and to frustrate the end of your existence. But when you add, that your death does injury to no one, do you recollect that you make this declaration to your friend?
Your death does injury to no one? I understand you! You think the loss I shall sustain by your death of no importance, you deem my affliction of no consequence. I will urge to you no more the rights of friendship which you despise, but are there not obligations still more dear, [49] which ought to induce you to preserve your life? If there is a person in the world who loved you to that degree as to be unwilling to survive you, and whose happiness depends on yours, do you think that you have no obligations to her? will not the execution of your wicked design disturb the peace of a mind, which has been, with such difficulty, restored to its former innocence? are not you afraid to add fresh torments to a heart of such sensibility? are not you apprehensive lest your death should be attended with a loss more fatal, which would deprive the world and virtue itself of its brightest ornament? and if she should survive you, are not you afraid to rouse up remorse in her bosom, which is more grievous to support than life itself? Thou ungrateful friend, thou indelicate lover! wilt thou always be taken up wholly with thyself? wilt thou always think on thy own troubles alone? hast thou no regard for the happiness of one who was so dear to thee? and cannot you resolve to live for her, who was willing to die with you?
You talk of the duties of a magistrate, and of a father of a family; and because you are not under those circumstances, you think yourself absolutely free. And are you then under no obligations to society, to whom you are indebted for your preservation, your talents, your understanding: do you owe nothing to your native country, and to those wretches who may need your assistance? O what an accurate calculation you make! among the obligations you have enumerated, you have only omitted those of a man and of a citizen. Where is the virtuous patriot, who refused to enlist under a foreign prince, because his blood ought not to be spilt but in the service of his country; and who now, in a fit of despair, is ready to shed it against the express prohibition of the laws? The laws, the laws, young man! did any wise man ever despise them? Socrates, though innocent, out of regard to them, refused to quit his prison. You do not scruple to violate them by quitting life unjustly; and you ask, what injury do I?
You endeavour to justify yourself by example. You presume to mention the Romans: you talk of the Romans! it becomes you indeed to cite those illustrious names. Tell me, did Brutus die a lover in despair, and did Cato tear out his entrails for his mistress? Thou weak and abject man, what resemblance is there between Cato and thee? shew me the common standard between that sublime soul and thine. Ah vain wretch, hold thy peace! I am afraid to profane his name by a vindication of his conduct. At that august and sacred name, every friend to virtue should bow to the ground, and honour the memory of the greatest hero in silence.
How ill you have selected your examples, and how meanly you judge of the Romans, if you imagine that they thought themselves at liberty to quit life so soon as it become a burthen to them. Recur to the excellent days of that republic, and see whether you will find a single citizen of virtue, who thus freed himself from the discharge of his duty, even after the most cruel misfortunes. When Regulus was on his return to Carthage, did he prevent the torments which he knew were preparing for him, by destroying himself? What would not Posthumius have given, when obliged to pass under the yoke at Caudium, had this resource been justifiable? how much did even the senate admire that effort of courage, which enabled the consul Varro to survive his defeat? For what reason did so many generals voluntarily surrender themselves to their enemies, they to whom ignominy was so dreadful, and who were so little afraid of dying? It was because they considered their blood, their life, and their latest breath, as devoted to their country; and neither shame nor misfortune could dissuade them from this sacred duty. But when the laws were subverted, and the state became a prey to tyranny, the citizens resumed their natural liberty, and the right they had over their own lives. When Rome was no more, it was lawful for the Romans to give up their lives; they had discharged their duties on earth, they had no longer any country to defend, they were therefore at liberty to dispose of their lives, and to obtain that freedom for themselves, which they could not recover for their country. After having spent their days in the service of expiring Rome, and in fighting for the defence of its laws, they died great and virtuous as they had lived, and their death was an additional tribute to the glory of the Roman name, since none of them beheld a sight above all others most dishonourable, that of a true citizen stooping to an usurper.
But thou, what art thou? what has thou done? dost thou think to excuse thyself on account of thy obscurity? does thy weakness exempt thee from thy duty, and because thou hast neither rank nor distinction in thy country, art thou less subject to the laws? It becomes you vastly to presume to talk of dying, while you owe the service of your life to your equals? Know that a death such as you meditate, is shameful and surreptitious. It is a theft committed on mankind in general. Before you quit life, return the benefits you have received from every individual. But, say you, I have no attachments. I am useless in the world. O thou young philosopher! art thou ignorant that thou canst not move a single step without finding some duty to fulfil; and that every man is useful to society, even by means of his existence alone.
Hear me, thou rash young man! thou art dear to me. I commiserate thy errors. If the least sense of virtue still remains in thy breast, attend, and let me teach thee to be reconciled to life. Whenever thou art tempted to quit it, say to thyself----“Let me at least do one good action before I die.” Then go in search for one in a state of indigence whom thou may’st relieve; for one under misfortunes, whom thou may’st comfort; for one under oppression, whom thou may’st defend. Introduce to me those unhappy wretches whom my rank keeps at a distance. Do not be afraid of misusing my purse, or my credit: make free with them; distribute my fortune, make me rich. If this consideration restrains you to day, it will restrain you to-morrow; if to-morrow, it will restrain you all your life. If it has no power to restrain you, die! you are below my care.
Letter CXVI. From Lord B----.
I cannot, my dear friend, embrace you to-day as I was in hopes I should, being detained two days longer at Kensington. It is the way of the court to be very busy in doing nothing, and all affairs run in a constant succession without being dispatched. The business which has confined me here eight days, might have been concluded in two hours; but as the chief concern of the ministry is to preserve an air of business, they waste more time in putting me off, than it would cost them to dispatch me. My impatience, which is rather too evident, does not contribute to shorten the delay. You know that the court is not suited to my turn; I find it more intolerable since we have lived together, and I had rather a hundred times share your melancholy, than be pestered with the knaves which abound in this country.
Nevertheless, in conversing with these busy sluggards, a thought struck me with regard to you, and I only wait your consent to dispose of you to advantage. I perceive that in struggling with your affliction, you suffer both from your uneasiness of mind, and from your resistance. If you are determined to live and overcome it, you have formed this resolution less in conformity to the dictates of reason and honour, than in compliance with your friends. But this is not enough. You must recover the relish of life to discharge its duties as you ought; for with so much indifference about every thing, you will succeed in nothing. We may both of us talk as we will; but reason alone will never restore you to your reason. It is necessity that a multiplicity of new and striking objects should in some measure withdraw you from that attention which your mind fixes solely on one object of its affections. To recover yourself, you must be detached from inward reflection, and nothing but the agitation of an active life, can restore you to serenity.
An opportunity offers for this purpose, which is not to be disregarded; a great and noble enterprise is on foot, and such an one as has not been equalled for ages. It depends on you to be a spectator and assistant in it. You will see the grandest sight which the eye of man ever beheld, and your turn for observation will be abundantly gratified. Your appointment will be honourable, and, with the talents you are master of, will only require courage and good health. You will find it attended with more danger than confinement, which will make it more agreeable to you; and, in few words, your engagement will not be for any long time. I cannot give you farther information at present; because this scheme, which is almost ripe for discovery, is nevertheless a secret with which I am not yet acquainted in all its particulars. I will only add, that if you decline this lucky and extraordinary opportunity, you will probably never recover it again, and will regret it as long as you live.
I have ordered my servant, who is the bearer of this letter, to find you out wherever you are, and not to return without a line; for the affair requires dispatch, and I must give an answer before I leave this place.
Letter CXVII. Answer.
Do, my lord; dispose of me; I will agree to whatever you propose. Till I am worthy to serve you; at least I claim the merit of obeying you.
Letter CXVIII. From Lord B----.
Since you approve of the thought I suggested, I will not delay a minute to acquaint you that every thing is concluded, and to explain to you the nature of the engagement I have entered into, in pursuance of the authority you gave me to make the agreement on your behalf.
You know that a squadron of five men of war is equipped at Plymouth, and that they are ready to set sail. The commodore is Mr. George Anson, a brave and experienced officer, and an old friend of mine. It is destined for the South-sea, whither it is to sail through the straits of Le Maire, and to come back by the East-Indies. You see therefore that the object is no less than to make the tour of the world, an expedition which, it is imagined, will take up three years.
I could have entered you as a volunteer; but to give you more importance among the crew, I have obtained the addition of a title for you, and you stand on the list in the capacity of engineer of the land forces: this will be more suitable to you, because, having followed the bent of your genius from your first outset in the world, I know you made it your early study.
I propose to return to London tomorrow, [50] to present you to Mr.
Anson within two days. In the mean time, take care to get your equipage ready, and provide yourself with books and instruments; for the embarkation is ready, and only waits for sailing orders. My dear friend, I hope that God will bring you back from this long voyage, in full health of mind and body; and that at your return, we shall meet never to part again.
Letter CXIX. To Mrs. Orbe My dear and lovely cousin, I am preparing to make the tour of the world; I am going into another hemisphere, in pursuit of that peace which I could not enjoy in this. Fool that I am! I am going to wander over the universe, without being able to find one place where my heart can rest. I am going to find a retreat from the world, where I may be at a distance from you. But it becomes me to regard the will of a friend, a benefactor, a father. Without the smallest hopes of a cure, at least I will take pains for it; Eloisa and virtue require the sacrifice. In three hours time I shall be at the mercy of the winds; in three days, I shall lose sight of Europe; in three months, I shall be in unknown seas, raging with perpetual tempests; in three years perhaps...How dreadful is the thought of never seeing you more! alas!
the greatest danger is in my own breast; for whatever may be my fate, I am resolved, I swear, that you shall see me worthy to appear in your sight, or you shall never behold me more.
Lord B----, who is on his return to Rome, will deliver this letter in his way, and acquaint you with all particulars concerning me. You are acquainted with his disposition, and you will easily guess at those circumstances which he does not chuse to communicate. You was once no stranger to mine; therefore you may likewise form some judgment of those things which I do not care to relate myself.
Your friend, I hear, has the happiness to be a mother as well as yourself. Ought she then to be?...O inexorable heaven!...O _my_ mother, why did heaven in its wrath grant you a son?...I must conclude; I feel that I must. Farewell, ye pure and celestial souls! Farewell ye tender and inseparable friends, the best women on earth! Each of you is the only object worthy of the other’s affections. May you mutually contribute to each other’s happiness.
Deign now and then to call to mind the memory of an unfortunate wretch, who only existed to share with you every sentiment of his soul, and who ceased to live, the moment he was divided from you. If ever----...I hear the signal, and the shouts of the sailors. The wind blows strong, and the sails are spread. I must on board: I must be gone. Thou vast and immense sea, which perhaps wilt bury me beneath thy waves! O that upon thy swelling surge I could recover that calm which has forsaken my troubled soul!
Volume III Letter CXX. From Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
How tedious is your stay! This going backward and forward is very disagreeable. How many hours are lost before you return to the place where you ought to remain for ever, and therefore, how much worse is it in you ever to go away! The idea of seeing you for so short a time, takes from the pleasure of your company. Do not you perceive that by residing at your own house and mine alternately, you are in fact at home in neither, and cannot you contrive some means by which you may make your abode in both at once?
What are we doing, my dear cousin? How many precious moments we lose, when we have none to waste! Years steal upon us; youth begins to vanish; life slides away imperceptibly; its momentary bliss is in our possession, and we refuse to enjoy it! Do you recollect the time when we were yet girls, those early days so agreeable and delightful, which no other time of life affords, and which the mind with so much difficulty forgets? How often, when we were obliged to part for a few days, or even for a few hours, have we sadly embraced each other, and vowed that when we were our own mistresses, we would never be asunder?
We are now our own mistresses, and yet we pass one half of the year at a distance from each other. Is then our affection weaker? My dear and tender friend, we are both sensible how much time, habit, and your kindness have rendered our attachment more strong and indissoluble. As to myself, your absence daily becomes more insupportable, and I can no longer live a minute without you. The progress of our friendship is more natural than it appears to be; it is founded not only on a similarity of character, but of condition. As we advance in years, our affections begin to centre in one point. We every day lose something that was dear to us, which we can never replace. Thus we perish by degrees, till at length, being wholly devoted to self-love, we lose life and sensibility, even before our existence ceases. But a susceptible mind arms itself with all its force against this anticipated death; when a chillness begins to seize the extremities, it collects all the genial warmth of nature round its own centre; the more connections it loses, the closer it cleaves to those which remain, and all its former ties are combined to attach it to the last object.
This is what I seem to experience, young as I am. Ah! my dear, my poor heart has been too susceptible of tender impressions! It was so early exhausted, that it grew old before its time, and so many different affections have absorbed it to that degree, that it has no room for any new attachments. You have known me in the successive capacities of a daughter, a friend, a mistress, a wife, and a mother. You know how every character has been dear to me! Some of these connections are utterly destroyed, others are weakened. My mother, my affectionate mother is no more; tears are the only tribute I can pay to her memory, and I do but half enjoy the most agreeable sensations of nature. As to love, it is wholly extinguished, it is dead for ever, and has left a vacancy in my heart, which will never be filled up again. We have lost your good and worthy husband, whom I loved as the dear part of yourself, and who was so well deserving of your friendship and tenderness. If my boys were grown up, maternal affection might supply these vacancies; but that affection, like all others, has need of participation, and what return can a mother expect from a child, only four or five years old? Our children are dear to us, long before they are sensible of our love, or capable of returning it; and yet, how much we want to express the extravagance of our fondness, to some one who can enter into our affection. My husband loves them; but not with that degree of sensibility I could wish; he is not intoxicated with fondness as I am; his tenderness for them is too rational; I would have it to be more lively, and more like my own. In short, I want a friend, a mother, who can be as extravagantly fond of my children, and her own, as myself. In a word, the fondness of a mother makes the company of a friend more necessary to me, that I may enjoy the pleasure of talking continually about my children, without being troublesome. I feel double the pleasure in the caress of my little Marcellinus, when I see that you share it with me. When I embrace your daughter, I fancy that I press you to my bosom. We have observed a hundred times, on seeing our little cherubs at play together, that the union of our affections has so united them, that we have not been able to distinguish to which of us they severally belonged.
This is not all: I have powerful reasons for desiring to have you always near me, and your absence is painful to me in more respects than one. Think on my aversion to all hypocrisy, and reflect on the continual reserve in which I have lived upwards of six years with the man whom I love above all others in the world. My odious secret oppresses me more and more, and my duty to reveal it seems every day more indispensable. The more I am prompted by honour to disclose it, the more I am obliged by prudence to conceal it. Consider what a horrid state it is for a wife to carry mistrust, falsehood and fear, even to her husband’s arms; to be afraid of opening her heart to him who is master of it, and to conceal one half of my life to ensure the peace of the other? Good God! from whom do I conceal my secret thoughts, and hide the recesses of a soul with which he has so much reason to be satisfied? From my Wolmar, my husband, and the most worthy husband with which heaven ever rewarded the virtue of unsullied chastity. Having deceived him once, I am obliged to continue the deceit, and bear the mortification of finding myself unworthy of all the kindness he expresses. My heart is afraid to receive any testimony of his esteem, his most tender caresses make me blush, and my conscience interprets all his marks of respect and attention, into symptoms of reproach and disdain. It is a cruel pain constantly to harbour this remorse, which tells me, that he mistakes the object of his esteem. Ah! if he but knew me, he would not use me thus tenderly!
No, I cannot endure this horrid state; I am never alone with that worthy man, but I am ready to fall on my knees before him, to confess my fault, and to expire at his feet with grief and shame.
Nevertheless, the reasons which at first restrained me, acquire fresh strength every day, and every motive which might induce me to make the declaration, conspires to enjoin me silence. When I consider the peaceable and tranquil state of the family, I cannot reflect without horror, what an irreparable disturbance might be occasioned by a single word. After six years passed in perfect union, shall I venture to disturb the peace of so good and discreet a husband, who has no other will than that of his happy wife, no other pleasure than to see order and tranquility throughout his family? Shall I afflict with domestic broils, an aged father who appears to be so contented, and so delighted with the happiness of his daughter and his friend? Shall I expose my dear children, those lovely and promising infants, to have their education neglected and shamefully slighted, to become the melancholy victims of family discord, between a father inflamed with just indignation, tortured with jealousy, and an unfortunate and guilty mother, always bathed in tears? I know what Mr. Wolmar is, how he esteems his wife; but how do I know what he will be when he no longer regards her? Perhaps he seems calm and moderate, because his predominant passion has had no room to display itself. Perhaps he would be as violent in the impetuosity of his anger, as he is gentle and composed now he has nothing to provoke him.
If I owe such regard to every one about me, is not something likewise due to myself? Does not a virtuous and regular course of life for six years obliterate, in some measure, the errors of youth, and am I still obliged to undergo the punishment of a failing which I have so long lamented? I confess, my dear cousin, that I look backwards with reluctance; the reflection humbles me to that degree that it dispirits me, and I am too susceptible of shame, to endure the idea, without falling into a kind of despair. I must reflect on the time which has passed since my marriage, in order to recover myself. My present situation inspires me with a confidence of which those disagreeable reflections would deprive me. I love to nourish in my breast these returning sentiments of honour. The rank of a wife and mother exalts my soul, and supports me against the remorse of my former condition.
When I view my children and their father about me, I fancy that every thing breathes an air of virtue, and they banish from my mind the disagreeable remembrance of my former frailties. Their innocence is the security of mine; they become dearer to me, by being the instruments of my reformation; and I think on the violation of honour with such horror, that I can scarce believe myself the same perfect who formerly was capable of forgetting its precepts. I perceive myself so different from what I was, so confirmed in my present state, that I am almost induced to consider what I have to declare, as a confession which does not concern me, and which I am not obliged to make.
Such is the state of anxiety and uncertainty in which I am continually fluctuating in your absence. Do you know what may be the consequence of this one day or other? My father is soon to set out for Bern, and is determined not to return till he has put an end to a tedious lawsuit, not being willing to leave us the trouble of concluding it, and perhaps doubting our zeal in the prosecution of it. In the interim, between his departure and his return, I shall be alone with my husband, and I perceive that it will then be impossible for me to keep the fatal secret any longer. When we have company, you know Mr.
Wolmar often chuses to retire and take a solitary walk; he chats with the peasants; he enquires into their situation; he examines the condition of their grounds; and assists them, if they require it, both with his purse and his advice. But when we are alone, he never walks without me; he seldom leaves his wife and children, and he enters into their little amusements with such an amiable simplicity, that on these occasions I always feel a more than common tenderness for him. In these tender moments, my reserve is in so much more danger, as he himself frequently gives me opportunities of throwing it aside, and has a hundred times held conversation with me which seemed to excite me to confidence. I perceive, that sooner or later, I must disclose my mind to him; but since you would have the confession concerted between us, and made with all the precaution which discretion requires, return to me immediately, or I can answer for nothing.
My dear friend, I must conclude, and yet what I have to add, is of such importance, that you must allow me a few words more. You are not only of service to me when I am with my children and my husband, but above all when I am alone with poor Eloisa: solitude is more dangerous, because it grows agreeable to me, and I court it without intending it. It is not, as you are sensible, that my heart still smarts with the pain of its former wounds; no, they are cured, I perceive that they are, I am very certain, I dare believe myself virtuous. I am under no apprehensions about the present, it is the time past which torments me. There are some reflections as dreadful, as the original sensation; the recollection moves us; we are ashamed to find that we shed tears, and we do but weep the more. They are tears of compassion, regret, and repentance; love has no share in them; I no longer harbour the least spark of love; but I lament the mischiefs it has occasioned; I bewail the fate of a worthy man who has been bereft of peace and perhaps of life, by gratifying an indiscreet passion. Alas! he has undoubtedly perished in this long and dangerous voyage which he undertook out of despair. If he was living, he would send us tidings from the farthest part of the world; near four years have elapsed since his departure. They say the squadron on which he is aboard, has suffered a thousand disasters, that they have lost three fourths of their crew, that several ships have gone to the bottom, and that no one can tell what is become of the rest. He is no more, he is no more! A secret foreboding tells me so. The unfortunate wretch has not been spared, any more than so many others. The distresses of his voyage, and melancholy, still more fatal than all, have shortened his days. Thus vanishes every thing which glitters for a while on earth.
The reproach of having occasioned the death of a worthy man, was all that was wanting to compleat the torments of my conscience. With what a soul was he endued! how susceptible of the tenderest love! He deserved to live!
I try in vain to dissipate these melancholy ideas; but they return every minute in spite of me. Your friend requires your assistance, to enable her to banish them, or to moderate them; and since I cannot forget this unfortunate man, I had rather talk of him with you, than think of him by myself.
You see how many reasons concur to make your company continually necessary to me. If you, who have been more discreet and fortunate, are not moved by the same reasons, yet does not your inclination persuade you of the same necessity? If it is true that you will never marry again, having so little satisfaction in your family, what house can be more convenient for you than mine? For my part, I am in pain, as I know what you endure in your own; for notwithstanding your dissimulation, I am no stranger to your manner of living, and I am not to be duped by those gay airs which you affected to display at Clarens. You have often reproached me with my failings; and I have a very great one to reproach you with in your turn; which is, that your grief is too solitary and confined. You get into a corner to indulge your affliction, as if you were ashamed to weep before your friend.
Clara, I do not like this. I am not ungenerous like you; I do not condemn your tears, I would not have you cease at the end of two or ten years, or while you live, to honour the memory of so tender a husband; but I blame you that after having passed the best of your days in weeping with your Eloisa, you rob her of the pleasure of weeping in her turn with you, and of washing away, by more honourable tears, the scandal of those which she shed in your bosom. If you are ashamed of your grief, you are a stranger to real affliction! If you find a kind of pleasure in it, why will you not let me partake of it?
Are you ignorant that a participation of affections communicates a soft and affecting quality to melancholy, which content never feels?
And was not friendship particularly designed to alleviate the evils of the wretched, and lessen their pains?
Such, my dear, are the reflections you ought to indulge; to which I must add, that when I propose your coming to live with me, I make the proposal no less in my husband’s name than in my own. He has often