expressed his surprize, and even been offended, that two such intimates as we, should live asunder: he assures me that he has told you so, and he is not a man who talks inadvertently. I do not know what solution you will take with respect to these proposals; I have reason to hope, that it will be such as I could wish. However it be, mine is fixed and unalterable. I have not forgotten the time when you would have followed me to England. My incomparable friend! it is now my turn. You know my dislike of the town, my taste for the country, for rural occupations, and how strongly a residence of three years has attached me to my house at Clarens. You are no stranger likewise to the trouble of removing a whole family, and you are sensible that it would be abusing my father’s good nature to oblige him to move so often. Therefore if you will not leave your family and come to govern mine, I am determined to take a house at Lausanne, where we will all live with you. Prepare yourself therefore; every thing requires it; my inclination, my duty, my happiness. The security of my honour, the recovery of my reason, my condition, my husband, my children, myself, I owe all to you; I am indebted to you for all the blessings I enjoy, I see nothing but what reminds me of your goodness, and without you I am nothing. Come then, my much loved friend, my guardian angel; come and enjoy the work of your own hands; come and gather the fruits of your benevolence. Let us have but one family, as we have but one soul to cherish it; you shall superintend the education of my sons, and I will take care of your daughters; we will share the maternal duties between us, and make our pleasure double. We will raise our minds together to the contemplation of that Being, who purified mine by means of your endeavours and having nothing more to hope for in this life, we will quietly wait for the next, in the bosom of innocence and friendship.
Letter CXXI. Answer.
Good heaven! my dear cousin, how I am delighted with your letter! Thou lovely preacher!...Lovely indeed: but in the preaching strain nevertheless. What a charming peroration! A perfect model of ancient oratory. The Athenian architect!...That florid speaker!...You remember him...In your old Plutarch...Pompous descriptions, superb temple!...When he had finished his harangue, comes another; a plain man; with a grave, sober, and unaffected air...who answered, as your cousin Clara might do...with a low, hollow, and deep tone..._All that, he has said, I will do_. Here he ended, and the assembly rang with applause! Peace to the man of words. My dear, we may be considered in the light of these two architects; and the temple in question, is that of friendship.
But let us recapitulate all the fine things you have said to me.
First, that we loved each other; secondly, that my company was necessary to you; thirdly, that yours was necessary to me likewise; and lastly, that as it was in our power to live together the rest of our days, we ought to do it. And you have really discovered all this without a guide! In truth, thou art a woman of vast eloquence! Well, but let me tell how I was employed on my part, while you was composing this sublime epistle. After that, I will leave you to judge, whether what you say, or what I do, is most to the purpose.
I had no sooner lost my husband, than you supplied the vacancy he had left in my heart. While he was living, he shared my affections with you; when he was gone, I was yours entirely, and as you observe with respect to the conformity of friendship and maternal affection, my daughter was an additional tie to unite us. I not only determined, from that time, to pass my days with you, but I formed a more enlarged plan. The more effectually to blend our two families into one, I proposed, on a supposition that all circumstances prove agreeable, to marry my daughter some day or other to your eldest son, and the name of husband assumed in jest, seemed to be a lucky omen of his taking it one day in earnest.
With this view, I endeavoured immediately to put an end to the trouble of a contested inheritance, and finding that my circumstances enabled me to sacrifice some part of my claim in order to settle the rest, I thought of nothing but placing my daughter’s fortune in some sure funds, where it might be secure from any apprehensions of a law suit.
You know that I am whimsical in most things; my whim in this was to surprize you. I intended to come into your room one morning early, with my child in one hand, and the parchment in the other; and to have presented them both to you, with a fine compliment on committing to your care the mother, the daughter, and their effects, that is to say, my child’s fortune. Govern her, I proposed to have said, as best suits the interest of your son; for from henceforwards it is your concern and his; for my own part, I shall trouble myself about her no longer.
Full of this pleasing idea, it was necessary for me to open my mind to somebody who might assist me to execute my project. Guess now whom I chose for a confident? One Mr. Wolmar: Should not you know him? “My husband, cousin?” Yes, your husband, cousin. The very man from whom you make such a difficulty of concealing a secret, which it is of consequence to him never to know, is he who has kept a secret from you, the discovery of which would have given you so much pleasure.
This was the true subject of all that mysterious conversation between us, about which you used to banter us with so much humour. You see what hypocrites these husbands are. Is it not very droll in them to accuse us of dissimulation? But I required much more of your husband.
I perceived that you had the same plan which I had in view, but you kept it more to yourself, as one who did not care to communicate her thoughts, till she was led to the discovery. With an intent therefore to make your surprize more agreeable, I would have had him, when you proposed our living together, to have seemed as if he disapproved of your eagerness, and to have given his consent with reluctance. To this he made me an answer, which I well remember, and which you ought never to forget; for since the first existence of husbands, I doubt whether any one of them ever made such an answer before. It was as follows.
“My dear little cousin, I know Eloisa...I know her well...better than she imagines perhaps...her generosity of heart is so great, that what she desires ought not to be refused, and her sensibility is too strong to bear a denial, without being afflicted. During these five years that we have married, I do not know that I have given her the least uneasiness; and I hope to die without ever being the cause of her feeling a moment’s inquietude.” Cousin, reflect on this: This is the husband whose peace of mind you are incessantly meditating to disturb.
For my part I had less delicacy, or more gentleness of disposition, and I so naturally diverted the conversation to which your affection so frequently led you, that as you could not tax me with coldness or indifference towards you, you took it into your head that I had a second marriage in view, and that I loved you better than any thing, except a husband. You see, my dear child, your most inmost thoughts do not escape me. I guess your meaning, I penetrate your designs; I enter into the bottom of your soul, and for that reason I have always adored you. This suspicion, which so opportunely led you into a mistake, appeared to me well worth encouraging. I took upon me to play the part of the coquettish widow, which I acted so well as to deceive even you.
It is a part for which I have more talents than inclination. I skilfully employed that piquant air which I know how to put on, and with which I have entertained myself in making a jest of more than one young coxcomb. You have been absolutely the dupe of my affectation, and you thought me in haste to supply the place of a man, to whom of all others it would be most difficult to a fit successor. But I am too ingenuous to play the counterfeit long, and your apprehensions were soon removed. But to confirm you the more, I will explain to you my real sentiments on that head.
I have told you an hundred times when I was a maid, that I was never designed for a wife. Had my determination depended on myself alone, I should never have married. But our sex cannot purchase liberty but by slavery; and before we can become our own mistresses, we must begin by being servants. Though my father did not confine me, I was not without uneasiness in my family. To free myself from that vexation, therefore, I married Mr. Orbe. He was such a worthy man, and loved me with such tenderness, that I most sincerely loved him in my turn. Experience gave me a more advantageous opinion of marriage than I had conceived of it, and effaced those impressions I had received from Chaillot. Mr.
Orbe made me happy, and did not repent his endeavours. I should have discharged my duty with any other, but I should have vexed him, and I am sensible that nothing but so good a husband could have made me a tolerable wife. Would you think that even this afforded me matter of complaint? My dear, we loved each other too affectionately; we were never gay. A slighter friendship would have been more sprightly; I should even have preferred it, and I think I should have chosen to have lived with less content, if I could have laughed oftener.
Add to this, that the particular circumstances of your situation, gave me uneasiness. I need not remind you of the dangers to which an unruly passion exposed you. I reflect on them with horror. If you had only hazarded your life, perhaps I might have retained some remains of gaiety: but terror and grief pierced my soul, and till I saw you married, I did not enjoy one moment of real pleasure. You are no stranger to my affliction at that time, you felt it. It had great influence over your good disposition, and I shall always bless those fortunate tears, which were probably the occasion of your return to virtue.
In this manner I passed all the time that I lived with my husband.
Since it has pleased the Almighty to take him from me, judge whether I can hope to find another so much to my mind, and whether I have any temptation to make the experiment? No, cousin, matrimony is too serious a state for me; its gravity does not suit with my humour; it makes me dull, and sits awkwardly upon me; not to mention that all constraint whatever is intolerable to me. Consider, you who know me, what charms can an attachment have in my eyes, during which, for seven years together, I have not laughed seven times heartily! I do not propose, like you, to turn matron at eight and twenty. I find myself a smart little widow, likely to get a husband still, and I think that if I was a man, I should have no objection to such a one as myself. But to marry again, cousin! hear me; I sincerely lament my poor husband, I would have given up one half of my days, to have passed the other half with him; and nevertheless, could he return to life, I should take him again for no other reason, than because I had taken him before.
I have declared to you my real intentions. If I have not been able to put them in execution, notwithstanding Mr. Wolmar’s kind endeavours, it is because difficulties seem to increase, as my zeal to surmount them strengthens. But my zeal will always gain the ascendency, and before the summer is over, I hope to return to you for the remainder of my days.
I must now vindicate myself from the reproach of concealing my uneasiness, and choosing to weep alone; I do not deny it, and this is the way I spend the most agreeable time I pass here. I never enter my house, but I perceive some traces which remind me of him, who made it agreeable to me. I cannot take a step, I cannot view a single object, without perceiving some signs of his tenderness and goodness of heart; and would you have my mind to be unaffected? When I am here, I am sensible of nothing but the loss I have sustained. When I am near you, I view all the comfort I have left. Can you make your influence over my disposition, a crime in me? If I weep in your absence, and laugh in your company, whence proceeds the difference? Ungrateful woman! it is because you alleviate all my afflictions, and I cannot grieve while I enjoy your society.
You have said a great deal in favour of our long friendship; but I cannot pardon you for omitting a circumstance that does me most honour; which is, that I love you, though you eclipse me! Eloisa, you were born to rule. Your empire is more despotic than any in the world.
It extends even over the will, and I am sensible of it more than any one. How happens it, my Eloisa? We are both in love with virtue; honour is equally dear to us; our talents are the same; I have very near as much spirit as you; and am not a bit less handsome. I am sensible of all this, and yet notwithstanding all, you prescribe to me, you overcome me, you cast me down, your genius crushes mine, and I am nothing before you. Even while you were engaged in an attachment with which you reproached yourself, and that I, who had not copied your failing, might have taken the lead in my turn, yet the ascendency still remained in you. The frailty I condemned in you, appeared to me almost in the light of a virtue; I could scarce forbear admiring in you, what I should have censured in another. In short, even at that time, I never accosted you without a sensible emotion of involuntary respect; and it is certain that nothing but your gentleness and affability of manners could entitle me to the rank of your friend: by nature, I ought to be your servant. Explain this mystery if you can; for my part, I am at a loss how to solve it.
But after all, I do in some measure conceive the reason, and I believe that I have explained it before now. The reason is, that your disposition enlivens every one round you, and gives them a kind of new existence, for which they are bound to adore you, since they derive it entirely from you. It is true, I have done you some signal services; you have so often acknowledged them, that it is impossible for me to forget them. I cannot deny but that, without my assistance, you had been utterly undone. But what did I do, more than return the obligation I owed you? Is it possible to have a long acquaintance with you without finding one’s mind impressed with the charms of virtue, and the delights of friendship? Do not you know that you have power to arm in your defence everyone who approaches you, and that I have no advantage whatever over others, but that of being, like the guards of Serositis, of the same age and sex, and of having been brought up with you. However it be, it is some comfort to Clara, that, though she is of less estimation than Eloisa, yet without Eloisa she would be of less value still; and in short, to tell you the truth, I think that we stood in great need of each other, and that we should both have been losers if fate had parted us.
I am chiefly concerned lest, while my affairs detain me here, you should discover your secret, which you are every minute ready to disclose. Consider, I intreat you, that there are solid and powerful reasons for concealing it, and that nothing but a mistaken principle can tempt you to reveal it. Besides, our suspicion that it is no longer a secret to him who is most interested in the discovery, is an additional argument against making any declaration without the greatest circumspection. Perhaps your husband’s reserve may serve as an example and a lesson to us: for in such cases there is very often a great difference between pretending to be ignorant of a thing, and being obliged to know it. Stay therefore, I beseech you, till we consult once more on this affair. If your apprehensions were well grounded, and your lamented friend was no more, the best resolution you could take, would be to let your history and his misfortunes be buried together. If he is alive, as I hope he is, the case may be different; but let us wait till we are sure of the event. In every state of the case, do not you think that you ought to pay some regard to the last advice of an unfortunate wretch, whose evils all spring from you?
With respect to the danger of solitude, I conceive and cannot condemn your fears, though I am persuaded that they are ill founded. Your past terrors have made you fearful; but I presage better of the time present, and you would be less apprehensive, if you had more reason to be so. But I cannot approve of your anxiety with regard to the fate of our poor friend. Now your affections have taken a different turn, believe me he is as dear to me as to yourself. Nevertheless I have forebodings quite contrary to yours, and more agreeable to reason.
Lord B---- has heard from him twice, and wrote to me on the receipt of the last letter, to acquaint me that he was in the South seas, and had already escaped all the dangers you apprehend. You know all this as well as I, and yet you are as uneasy as if you were a stranger to these particulars. But there is a circumstance you are ignorant of, and of which I must inform you; it is, that the ship on which he is on board, was seen two months ago off the Canaries, making sail for Europe. This is the account my father received from Holland, which he did not fail to transmit to me; for it is his custom to be more punctual in informing me concerning public affairs, than in acquainting me with his own private concerns. My heart tells me that it will not be long before we hear news of our philosopher, and that your tears will be dried up, unless after having lamented him as dead, you weep to find him alive, But, thank God, you are no longer in danger from your weakness.
_Deh! fosse or qui quel miser puer un poco, Ch’ e giá di piangere e di viver lasso!_ This is the sum of my answer. Your affectionate friend proposes, and shares with you the agreeable expectation of a lasting re-union. You find that you are neither the first, nor the only author of this project; and that the execution of it is more forward than you imagined. Have patience therefore, my dear friend, for this summer: It is better to delay our meeting for same time, than to be under the necessity of parting again.
Well, good Madam, have not I been as good as my word, and is not my triumph compleat? Come, fall on your knees, kiss this letter with respect, and humbly acknowledge that, once in her life at least, Eloisa Wolmar has been outdone in friendship.
Letter CXXII. To Mrs. Orbe.
My dear cousin, my benefactress, my friend! I come from the extremities of the earth, and bring a heart full of affection for you.
I have crossed the line four times; I have traversed the two hemispheres; I have seen the four quarters of the globe; its diameter has been between us; I have been quite round it, and yet could not escape from you one moment. It is in vain to fly from the object of our adoration: the image, more fleet than the winds, pursues us from the end of the world, and wherever we transport ourselves, we bear with us the idea by which we are animated. I have endured a great deal; I have seen others suffer more. How many unhappy wretches have I seen perish! Alas! They rated life at a high price! And yet I survived them...Perhaps my condition was less to be pitied; the miseries of my companions affected me more than my own. I am wretched here, said I to myself, but there is a corner of the globe where I am happy and tranquil; and the prospect of felicity on the side of the lake at Geneva, made me amends for what I suffered on the ocean. I have the pleasure on my return to find my hopes confirmed: Lord B---- informs me that you both enjoy health and peace; and that if you, in particular, have lost the agreeable distinction of a wife, you nevertheless retain the title of a friend and mother, which may contribute to your happiness.
I am at present too much in haste to send you a detail of my voyage in this letter. I dare hope that I shall soon have a more convenient opportunity; meantime I must be content to give you a slight sketch, rather to excite than gratify your curiosity. I have been near four years in making this immense tour, and I returned in the same ship in which I set sail, the only one of the whole squadron which we have brought back to England.
I have seen South-America, that vast continent which for want of arms has been obliged to submit to the Europeans, who have made it a desert, in order to secure their dominion. I have seen the coasts of Brazil, from whence Lisbon and London draw their treasures, and where the miserable natives tread upon gold and diamonds, without daring to lay hands on them for their own life. I crossed, in mild weather, those stormy seas under the Antarctic circle, and I met with the most horrible tempests in the Pacific ocean.
_E in mar dubbioso sotto ignoto polo Provai l’onde fallaci, e’l vento in fido._ I have seen, at a distance, the abode of those supposed giants, who are no otherwise greater than the rest of their species, than as they are more courageous, and who maintain their dependence more by a life of simplicity and frugality, than by their extraordinary stature. I made a residence of three months in a desert and delightful island, which afforded an agreeable and lively representation of the primitive beauty of nature, and which seems to be fixed at the extremity of the world to serve as an asylum to innocence and persecuted love; but the greedy European indulges his brutal disposition in preventing the peaceful Indian from residing there, and does justice on himself, by not making it his own abode.
I have seen, in the rivers of Mexico and Peru, the same scenes as at Brazil; I have seen the few wretched inhabitants, the sad remains of two powerful nations, loaded with irons, ignominy and misery, weeping in the midst of their precious metals, and reproaching heaven for having lavished such treasures among them. I have seen the dreadful conflagration of a whole city, which perished in the flames without having made any resistance or defence. Such is the right of war among the intelligent, humane, and refined Europeans! They are not satisfied with doing the enemy all the mischief from whence they can reap any advantage, but they reckon as clear gain, all the destruction they can make among his possessions. I have coasted along almost the whole western part of America, not without being struck with admiration on beholding fifteen hundred leagues of coast, and the greatest sea in the world, under the dominion of a single potentate, who may be said to keep the keys of one hemisphere.
After having crossed this vast sea, I beheld a new scene on the other continent, I have seen the most numerous and most illustrious nation in the world, in subjection to a handful of Banditti; I have had close intercourse with this famous people, and I do not wonder that they are slaves. As often conquered as attacked, they have always been a prey to the first invader, and will be so to the end of the world. They are well suited to their servile state, since they have not the courage even to complain. They are learned, lazy, hypocritical, and deceitful: they talk a great deal without saying anything; they are full of spirit, without any genius; they abound in signs, but are barren in ideas; they are polite, full of compliments, dextrous, crafty, and knavish; they comprise all the duties of life in trifles, all morality in grimace, and have no other idea of humanity, than what consists in bows and salutations. I landed upon a second desert island, more unknown, more delightful still than the first, and where the most cruel accident had like to have confined us for ever. I was the only one perhaps, whom so agreeable an exile did not terrify; am I not doomed to be an exile every where? In this place of terror and delight, I saw the attempts of human industry to disengage a civilized being from a solitude where he wants nothing; and plunge him into an abyss of new necessities.
On the vast ocean, where one would imagine men would be glad to meet with their own species, I have seen two great ships sail up to each other, join, attack, and fight together with fury, as if that immense space was too little for either of them. I have seen them discharge flames and bullets against each other. In a sight which was not of long duration, I have seen the picture of hell. I have heard the triumphant shouts of the conquerors, drown the cries of the wounded, and the groans of the dying. I blushed to receive my share of an immense plunder; but I received it in the nature of a trust, and as it was taken from the wretched, to the wretched it shall be restored.
I have seen Europe transported to the extremities of Africa, by the labours of that avaricious, patient, and industrious people, who by time and perseverance have surmounted difficulties which all the heroism of other nations could never overcome. I have seen those immense and miserable countries, which seem destined to no other purpose than to cover the earth with herds of slaves. At their vile appearance, I turned away my eyes, out of disdain, horror and pity; and on beholding one fourth part of my fellow creatures transformed into beast for the service of the rest, I could not forbear lamenting that I was a man.
Lastly, I beheld, in my fellow travellers, a bold and intrepid people, whose freedom and example retrieved, in my opinion, the honour of the species; a people, who despised pain and death, and who dreaded nothing but hunger and disquiet. In their commander, I beheld a captain, a soldier, a pilot, a prudent and great man, and to say still more perhaps, a friend worthy of Lord B----. But throughout the whole world, I have never met with any resemblance of Clara Orbe, or Eloisa Etange, or found one who could recompense a heart truly sensible of their worth, for the loss of their society.
How shall I speak of my cure? It is from you that I must learn how far it is perfect. Do I return more free, and more discreet than I departed? I dare believe that I do, and yet I cannot affirm it. The same image has constant possession of my heart; you know how impossible it is for me ever to efface it; but her dominion over me is more worthy of her, and if I do not deceive myself, she holds the same empire in my heart, as in your own. Yes, my dear cousin, her virtue has subdued me; I am now, with regard to her, nothing more than a most sincere and tender friend, my adoration of her is of the same nature with yours; or rather, my affections do not seem to be weakened, but rectified, and however nicely I examine, I find them to be as pure as the object which inspires them. What can I say more, till I am put to the proof, by which I may be able to form a right judgment of myself?
I am honest and sincere; I will be what I ought to be; but how shall I answer for my affections, when I have so much reason to mistrust them?
Have I power over the past? How can I avoid recollecting a thousand passions which have formerly distracted me? How shall my imagination distinguish what is, from what has been? And how shall I consider her as a friend, whom I never yet saw but as a mistress? Whatever you may think of the secret motive of my eagerness, it is honest and rational, and merits your approbation. I will answer beforehand, at least for my intentions. Permit me to see you, and examine me yourself, or allow me to see Eloisa, and I shall then know my own heart.
I am to attend Lord B---- into Italy. Shall I pass close by your house, and not see you? Do you think this possible? Ah! if you are so cruel to require it, you ought not to be obeyed! But why should you desire it? Are you not the same Clara, as kind and compassionate as you are virtuous and discreet, who condescended from her infancy to love me, and who ought to love me still more, now that I am indebted to her for every thing. [51] No, my dear and lovely friend, such a cruel denial will not become you, nor will it be just to me; it shall not put the finishing stroke to my misery. Once more, once more in my life, I will lay my heart at your feet. I will see you, you shall consent to an interview. I will see Eloisa likewise, and she too shall give her consent. You are both of you too sensible of my regard for her. Can you believe me capable of making this request, if I found myself unworthy to appear in her presence? She has long since bewailed the effects of her charms, ah! let her for once behold the fruits of her virtue!
P. S. Lord B----’s affairs detain him here for some time; if I may be allowed to see you, why should not I get the start of him, to be with you the sooner?
Letter CXXIII. From Mr. Wolmar.
Though we are not yet acquainted, I am commanded to write to you. The most discreet and most beloved wife, has lately disclosed her heart to her happy husband. He thinks you worthy to have been the object of her affections, and he makes you an offer of his house. Peace and innocence reign in this mansion; you will meet with friendship, hospitality, esteem and confidence. Examine your heart, and if you find nothing there to deter you, come without any apprehensions. You will not depart from him, without leaving behind you at least one friend, by name.
WOLMAR.
P. S. Come, my friend, we expect you with eagerness. I hope I need not fear a denial.
ELOISA.
Letter CXXIV. From Mrs. Orbe.
_In which the preceding Letter was inclosed._ Welcome, welcome a thousand times, dear St. Preux! for I intend that you shall retain that name, at least among us. I suppose it will be sufficient to tell you, that you will not be excluded, unless you mean to exclude yourself. When you find, by the inclosed letter, that I have done more than you required of me, you will learn to put more confidence in our friends, and not to reproach them on account of those inquietudes which they participate when, compelled by reason, they are under a necessity of making you uneasy. Mr. Wolmar has a desire to see you, he makes you an offer of his house, his friendship, and his advice; this is more than requisite to quiet my apprehensions with regard to your journey, and I should injure myself, if I mistrusted you one moment. Mr. Wolmar goes farther, he pretends to accomplish your cure, and he says that neither Eloisa, you, nor I, can be perfectly happy till it is compleat. Though I have great confidence in his wisdom, and more in your virtue, yet I cannot answer for the success of this undertaking. This I know, that considering the disposition of his wife, the pains he proposes to take, is out of pure generosity to you.
Come then, my worthy friend, in all the security of an honest heart, and satisfy the eagerness with which we all long to embrace you, and to see you easy and contented: come to your native land, and in the midst of your friends, rest yourself after all your travels, and forget all the hardships you have undergone. The last time you saw me, I was a grave matron, and my friend was on the brink of the grave; but now that she is well, and I am once more single, you will find me as gay, and almost as handsome as ever. One thing however is very certain, that I am not altered with respect to you, and you may travel many times round the world, and not find one who has so sincere a regard for you as your, &c.
Letter CXXV. To Lord B----.
Just risen from my bed: ’tis yet the dead of night. I cannot rest a moment. My heart is so transported, that I can scarce confine it within me. You, my Lord, who have so often rescued me from despair, shall be the worthy confident of the first pleasure I have tasted for many a year.
I have seen her, my Lord! My eyes have beheld her! I heard her voice.
I have prest her hand with my lips. She recollected me; she received me with joy; she called me her friend, her dear friend; she admitted me into her house: I am happier than ever I was in my life. I lodge under the same roof with her, and while I am writing to you, we are scarce thirty paces asunder.
My ideas are too rapid to be exprest; they crowd upon me all at once, and naturally impede each other. I must pause a while to digest my narrative into some kind of method.
After so long an absence, I had scarce given way to the first transports of my heart, while I embraced you as my friend, my deliverer, and my father, before you thought of taking a journey to Italy. You made me wish for it, in hopes of relief from the burthen of being useless to you. As you could not immediately dispatch the affairs which detained you in London, you proposed my going first, that I might have more time to wait for you here. I begged leave to come hither; I obtained it, I set out, and though Eloisa made the first advances towards an interview, yet the pleasing reflection that I was going to meet her, was checked by the regret of leaving you. My Lord, we are now even, this single sentiment has cancelled my obligations to you.
I need not tell you that my thoughts were all the way taken up with the object of my journey; but I must observe one thing, that I began to consider that same object, which had never quitted my imagination, quite in another point of view. till then I used to recall Eloisa to my mind, sparkling, as formerly, with all the charms of youth. I had always beheld her lovely eyes, enlivened by that passion with which she inspired me. Every feature which I admired, seemed, in my opinion, to be a surety of my happiness. My affection was so interwoven with the idea of her person, that I could not separate them. Now I was going to see Eloisa married, Eloisa a Mother, Eloisa indifferent! I was disturbed, when I reflected how much an interval of eight years might have impaired her beauty. She had had the small-pox; she was altered; how great might that alteration be? My imagination obstinately refused to allow any blemish in that lovely face. I reflected likewise on the expected interview between us, and what kind of reception I might expect. This first meeting presented itself to my mind under a thousand different appearances, and this momentary idea came athwart my imagination a thousand times a day.
When I perceived the top of the hills, my heart beat violently, and told me, There she is! I was affected in the same manner at sea, on viewing the coast of Europe. I felt the same emotions at Meillerie, when I discovered the house of the Baron D’Etange. The world, in my imagination, is divided only into two regions, _that_ where she is, and _that_ where she is not. The former dilates as I remove from her, and contracts when I approach her, as a spot where I am destined never to arrive. It is at present confined to the walls of her chamber.
Alas! that place alone is inhabited; all the rest of the universe is an empty space.
The nearer I drew to Switzerland, the more I was agitated. That instant in which I discovered the lake of Geneva from the heights of Jura, was a moment of rapture and extasy. The light of my country,